Crave
by silverluna
Summary: Do nightmares really come true, if dreamt while sleeping alone at night, five nights in row before Halloween? Juliet O'Hara is about to find out. October 31st casts its dangerous, seductive spell. Shules and Vampire!Shawn. Very slight Lassiet.
1. Chapter 1: Into Your Dream

**Crave**

A _Psych_ Halloween Story

by silverluna

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended. Don't own references to "Little Red Riding Hood" or Phil Collins/ his songs.

Characters: Juliet O'Hara, Shawn Spencer, Karen Vick, Burton "Gus" Guster, Carlton Lassiter

Pairing: Shules

Summary: Do nightmares really come true, if dreamt while sleeping alone at night, five nights in row before Halloween? Juliet O'Hara is about to find out.

Author's Note: A Halloween Character Fantasy for mia and dragonnan with Shules and Vampire! Shawn. WIP apparently. I also want to credit dragonnan for her awesome inspirational "Crave" banner signature (that used to be yours, right?). Reviews, feedback and constructive criticism are welcome. Happy Halloween! Enjoy!

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

**Chapter One: I Walked Into Your Dream**

For the past five nights, the very same dream— like clockwork, or a tease. By the third night, she found herself almost afraid to close her eyes; the first two nights must have been a fluke, right? The first night the most intense, a dream so vivid it continues to haunt even when the eyes open, even when one pushes back the covers, dresses, walks down the hall and crosses the threshold of home.

Unlike a nightmare's jarring reprieve— a moment so shocking to cause the dream to fold back for the mind to remember its attachment to its body, and to its accepted reality, this story was told in the grip, backwards, the first step always, always, that he leaned across her, leering like an incubus— not a bit like himself in daylight. When he leaned, the moonlight scurried across his eyes, which were not their charming shade of hazel-pale yellow-dark green but instead were enchanted, caught in a spell of red tangled with orange— immediately recognizable, even to the dreamer self, as unnatural. He would pin her to the pillow with just his eyes, his parched lips parting to reveal two even sets of white points— fanged like a bat or a snake.

He would never ask for her name or if she was as delighted as he that she was about to become his night's meal. Then he would lower and bite her, full on, on her neck. This never cut away, or was the shock which woke her, causing a shuddering from shoulders to toes. Instead, she would lie there as he punctured and drank, paralyzed against her sheets as nearly every drop of redness left her, fleshing out his lips, changing his eyes once again to hazel, bringing some kind of life to the pallor of his skin.

It was only his kiss that brought her to waking— a long, blood wet kiss on her lips, the kisses of fairy tale potential, that bring back life to dying embers, to victims of curses or of jealous lovers. It was in this that she did not want, in this dream, night after night, a reprieve.

Instead, she wanted to return it, a fierce kiss to her demon love, hard enough to sink her teeth into his lips, pull him to her with only her mouth— but he had already taken too much of her, all her strength, all her will. She could only allow his lips to feed one last time on her last drop of blood, transformed from a drop of life to the essence of her love— a whole eternity in just one drop.

* * * * *

Juliet woke after the fifth night exactly the same way as the others, gasping for air, as if, as if— she blushed furiously, though she was alone in her apartment, with no one to hide her feelings from. _The kiss—_

Juliet dragged her slender fingers through her long blond hair, fanning it out against her shoulders like a shield. Rolling her eyes, she gathered it in a messy ponytail before letting it drop and rolled her eyes. It was just a dream. Five times, it was still just a dream.

* * * * *

The dream followed her like a shadow, like a ghost, even as she opened the station's doors and started the trek down the hallway to her desk. It wasn't until she was three quarters of the way there that she remembered what day it was— October 31st, Halloween.

Juliet had to pause, as if a fist of breath had caught her in the midsection, giving her the sensation she was going to be sick, that she was bent double. She wrapped her arms around her, feeling her strength drain from her drop by drop— _he_ must be near.

"O'Hara!"

Juliet jumped, straightening quickly with a look of mild fright on her features. Her partner, who'd unnecessarily bellowed, was standing a few steps in front of her, one long eyebrow raised curiously. There was annoyance in the corner of his mouth, betrayed only by a strangely sympathetic surprise in his eyes at her reaction. Her face appeared drained of its color; she must not have caught his surprise, but he didn't want to take that chance. "What are you just standing there for?" he accused as if she had done it on purpose. "It's Halloween— you know it's nonstop crap from teenage punks, snot-nosed prankster kids and loony and strung out criminals out for a score tonight."

He continued to drone on for another long minute, throughout which she attempted to shrug off the dream's wispy shroud. Juliet nodded in his silence, forcing her voice to leave her mouth. "Right, let's get to work."

Lassiter turned around, getting two steps before ordering her, over his shoulder, to get herself some coffee. He missed her nodding again, as if she recognized the friendliness he only offered to her, but she didn't. The dream had reached her here; it should be safe at home, tucked under her pillow, awaiting her return to slumber. But its tentacles had flowed out, slid under doors, slinked through the cracks in the sidewalks, murmured its whispers through Autumn leaves drying on their branches, tossed through neat piles on the ground, looked eyeless for her, knowing just where she was headed.

It hushed in here, welcomed when she opened the doors, encircling her waist when she paused. She had known it was following, but only that it had been following from the back of her mind; its "physical" presence she hadn't known of.

Juliet went through the motions of morning arrival, watching her hands perform tasks such as getting coffee into a cup, stacking files, finding her pens and contact numbers. After she locked her purse in her bottom desk drawer and stood up, she felt herself starting to feel better.

It— the dream— must have recoiled, knowing it couldn't stay here. Maybe it was as startled as she by Lassiter; whatever the reason, she was glad to see it go. It had no place here, and no business— it belonged only to her.

* * * * *

Vick refused herself to repeat the phrase, "Read my lips" again, chagrined the pair before her would burst out laughing while they pleaded their case. This year she had allowed some leniency when it came to costumes— though she had, in her updated policy, made clear that even when dressing up, one must remain professional.

She herself, as Chief, had taken the most leniency to heart, and had a donned a look of a Phil Collins groupie, circa 1982, making herself an easy target for the 80's obsessed Shawn Spencer. She'd frizzed up her short hair with mousse, adorned her wrists multiple jangly bangles, and dug a vintage Phil Collins "Against All Odds" t-shirt out of her closet, wearing it under her professional suit jacket, and made up her face with heavy eighties-esque eyeshadow, with pale baby pink lipstick dotting her mouth. A look she had been proud of when she'd glance in the mirror leaving her house, even earning a "thumbs up" from her husband. Karen had reapplied the lipstick several times already, twice since they had been in her space— they had a knack for making her grind it right off of her lips.

Karen had noticed that, nearly upon entry, Mr. Guster had been seemingly unable to take his eyes off her lips, even as she went for the quick reapplies. His costume, she was certain, was going to cause her night blindness, with its silky sheen of too bright too many 1970's colors. Karen found herself getting sick just glancing at it.

"But Chief, this is important," Shawn whined, changing his tune at a sharp glance from Vick. He coughed. "I mean, in all likelihood, it could be."

"For a case," Guster put in, nudging Shawn again.

"Right, for a _case_," Shawn repeated, his body beginning another cycle of spasms and twitches— another cause for her to throw up.

"For the last time, Mr. Spencer," Vick said, her voice raising from its usual evenness to convey her "NO" accurately, "I am not authorizing a commission so you can go to said Halloween parties where you may or may not discover nefarious goings-on!"

Shawn stopped rocking, a hurt look on his pale face. He was starting to gather another set of cleverly described reasons why his potential life saving mission should be allowed— _none_ of which included insulting the Chief's costume in any way— nay, a flurry of compliments would be coming her way, Shawn "foresaw", which the office door opened.

"Chief," Lassiter began, looking passed the pair to address Vick. His eyes flickered over them briefly, unable to resist commenting on their costume choices, ending it with a sneer and a "You both look ridiculous!"

"Where's your costume?" Gus asked, taking in that Lassiter looked the same as he always did.

Lassiter looked offended. "You can't tell? I'm a Detective." He pointed to the badge on his belt for emphasis.

"You're a Detective everyday," Shawn said, waiting for a witty response.

"No, I'm _Head_ Detective everyday," Lassiter snapped as explanation.

The pair stole a look and an exaggerated eye roll at one another.

Juliet entered the office still speaking to someone in the hall. She turned her head forward slowly, stopping dead when her eyes alighted upon—

"Hey, Jules!" Shawn greeted pleasantly. As he turned from Vick's desk upon catching her arrival from the corner of his eye, the black cape with its red lining pivoted with him, swirling before settling again against his arms and back. "I like your Head Detective costume, Jules," he continued, ignoring the sharp glare Lassiter sent his way. His voice was slightly muffled due to the plastic fangs he'd insisted on keeping over his teeth. There was a long line of blood at the corner of his mouth, and he wore black pants and a white shirt, which was stained with something unmistakably red on its left breast, just where his heart should be.

Frozen, Juliet waited breathlessly as he floated towards her, his feet not even dragging on the ground. She thought,_ Such big teeth, _a sentiment he answered aloud with, "All the better to eat you with, my dear," before leaning in close, as if to kiss her.

_Shawn, _she thought, then again, louder in her mind, _Shawn, stop! Stop!! Don't do this! Not now, not here!_ Her piercing scream the only soundtrack to this silent film as moved to her, as a white fog rolled in at their feet. His teeth brushed her lips, biting at their plump softness, drawing a scratch of blood. Then he went in for the kill, chomping down on her neck like a vicious dog or a tiger ripping into a raw cut of meat. Juliet screamed again.

Blood, lifeblood, hers and hers alone, oozed from her wounds, dribbled down her neck, stained her clothes.

Never before the fainting type, she swooned.


	2. Chapter 2: Vampire Hunter, SBPD

**Chapter Two: Vampire Hunter, SBPD**

* * *

Disclaimer: Don't own references to _Psycho_, _Blacula, Scream Blacula Scream aka Blacula Is Beautiful_, Phil Collins' song "Against All Odds", the _Friday the 13th_ movies, _Freddy vs. Jason_, Jelly Bellies, Mountain Dew Code Red, Twizzlers, Snickers, or _Vampire Hunter D_.

Author's Note: As always, reviews and feedback are greatly desired and appreciated!

* * *

* * * * *

She had missed the round of yells, her name included several times, along with unanswered orders of to "cease and desist," as if she were actually in a position to obey.

She was coming back, blinking, her mouth shaping a groan. A whirl of imagery, heavy black, pressed down on her, held her body against the floor; on her cheek, a glop of red, as if a brush full of paint had splattered, clotted. Foreign, a substance sliding in a curve down her neck, prickling, tightening her. She gasped, both voice and breath shuddering and dying in her throat— or was it in _his_? Trapped? Swallowed? Enjoyed? She shook herself hard, not wanting whatever it was her lips told her she wanted._ I want to be fed._ As she became more aware, it dawned that someone very strong was holding onto her by the shoulders, shaking them occasionally.

_Feed me,_ a version of Shawn said within her with his teeth, not move his lips. Shawn, with his orange-red bleeding twilight eyes, with his teeth, again, pulling his cracked lips into a grin. She shuddered, her hands flying to neck. _Smooth— no wounds, no . . . blood._ Juliet opened her eyes.

* * * * *

Juliet blinked furiously, as if sleep had covered her eyelids for ages— one hundred years in a couple of minutes._ Or seconds, only seconds?_ She heard her name said twice, in a rush. She turned her head slowly towards her protector, realizing that Lassiter's arms were the ones around her, propping her up so her back wasn't on the cold floor. Another shake jarred her, stopped only by Vick. "Carlton, she's awake." The motion stopped, and he turned his face towards hers. His concern was obvious, stretched across his face like a Halloween mask— it had him at every edge and wrinkle. Juliet was already expecting that he wouldn't be able to throw his voice, and thus was able to suppress a wince when he started in immediately with questions.

"What do you last remember?" Lassiter asked her, somewhat gruffly. "Are you sick? Why didn't you say something to me when you came in? Not that you have any _right_ to be sick on Halloween."

"Carlton," Vick chided.

Lassiter frowned, but couldn't help grumbling, "You should have told me right away, so I could have told you right away to 'walk it off'."

"_Detective_," Vick warned. His frown continued, but he said nothing more.

Everyone was peering at her, concerned. Shawn's pale face was standing out. "You okay, Jules?" he asked, his voice muffled by the teeth. Juliet averted her eyes, not having to feign embarrassment.

"Um." Juliet flushed slightly, her fingers reaching up to brush her forehead. She wasn't about to tell them anything— _was there even the most minute of chances it could have really—?_ Juliet shook her head. "Coming into the office," she said. "And— Shawn— um, walking towards me." It was enough of the truth; she knew if she said "floating", it was to be a straight-jacketed psychological evaluation for sure.

The four of them exchanged a quick look that Juliet didn't miss, Shawn to Gus and Vick to Lassiter. "What?" she asked, glancing quickly at Lassiter, before skimming her eyes quickly over Shawn and Gus to settle on the Chief. "What?"

"Spencer didn't walk towards you," Lassiter told her slowly. "You were just standing by the door and then you keeled over."

"Oh," Juliet replied, furrowing her brow. "I must have . . ." her voice trailed off.

"Are you all right, Detective?" Vick asked, concerned.

She nodded. So, she hadn't screamed? She hadn't been bitten, repeatedly, she hadn't been sort of kissed and then devoured here, while they watched, while their figures darkened, while a white fog embraced the room? Leaving only herself and him to— "S-sorry, I'm fine now." She tried to untangle her limbs from her partner's grasp, insisting with her expressions that she was okay, because she wasn't certain she entirely trusted her own voice. Not right now.

"You were staring at me pretty intensely though, Jules," Shawn piped up. He raised both eyebrows, caked, it seemed, with some fake blood. "Did you see a ghost?"

Vick's eyes narrowed while Gus handled a flash of fear, covering it with a frown at his best friend. Juliet appeared frightened by the prospect, but looked away without answering.

Lassiter, acting unusually chivalrous, keep a hold of Juliet's arms as he helped her to her feet. When she tugged her arms, he cleared his throat and let her go, but remained close, as if he expected whatever spell that had touched her hadn't yet passed. She couldn't help her skewered sideways look in his direction— was he masquerading today as some kind of— white knight? Or would it be "gray" knight, because of the enduring rain cloud over his head? This little bit of humor to herself should have done in her tension with its familiarity, but she couldn't banish it, not with Shawn still standing in the room— especially when he was dressed like that.

But, wasn't it impossible? The fog, the floating, not to mention the biting— while everyone else faded to blackness as premature nighttime came in through the windows, the tighter he held her, the tighter he kissed her— Juliet swayed.

"Is that blood on your shirt, Shawn?" Juliet blurted out, feeling her partner's long fingers encircle her arm.

"Blood?" Gus cut in, some nausea evident in his voice. He cautiously peered around Shawn to examine the white shirt, and then rolled his eyes. "I thought you were going to wash that off."

Adjusting his steps to Juliet's slower gait— her face was flushed as if she were fevered— Lassiter walked his partner to one of the chairs in front of Vick's desk. "I'm going to get her some water," Lassiter informed Vick, who nodded. Lassiter glared sharply at Shawn before leaving.

"Geez, it was a just a jelly donut," Shawn was mumbling, still wearing the teeth. "I thought it made a nice effect."

"It grosses people out, Shawn," Gus said.

"No, it grosses you out. It's not even blood."

"It _looks_ like blood!"

"That's _why_ it's good effect!"

"It's not an 'effect'— it makes you look like a slob!"

"So what? Are all vampires really the neatest eaters? Come on, that blood stuff goes everywhere. Haven't you ever seen _Psycho_?"

"_Psycho_ is _not_ a vampire movie, Shawn. _Scream Blacula Scream_, now that was classic!"

"Don't you mean _Blacula Is Beautiful_?"

_"__Blacula_ used to give me nightmares," Karen muttered, smoothing out her "Against All Odds" t-shirt. Juliet scrunched up her nose, catching the low comment.

"I've heard it both ways," Gus retorted. He and Shawn pointed at each other. "Blood stuff?" Gus raised an eyebrow.

"_Yes_," Shawn said, as if he were saying "Duh". "Corn syrup. Ketchup. Chocolate syrup. That goo they make those blood flavored Jelly Bellies out of."

"Shawn, there are officially fifty flavors of Jelly Bellies, and 'blood' is not one of them."

"But don't some of those red ones taste like blood to you?"

Gus glared. "Noo." He sighed. "Damn, now I'm kind of hungry."

Shawn nodded. "Me too. But not all of them at once."

"Hell no."

"And make sure you keep the Crushed Pineapple ones away from me. They taste like sewage but are they addicting?!" Shawn paused for dramatic effect. "Yes! Yes they are!" He sighed. "Good times." Gus nodded. "But dude, back to what I was saying, _Psycho_ was _so_ too a vampire movie! I could have been the star!" He threw out his arms, causing the black cape to flap in the air— similar sounds to that of a bat's wings on the wind. He continued, "Janet Leigh in the shower, the midget zombie dressed like a grandmother yanking open the curtain, biting her brain repeatedly—"

Gus's mouth pulled into a tight line, signifying that he was not about to dignify that with an answer. He was not also about to say that he was now afraid to take a shower ever again.

Shawn opened his mouth wide, steering his teeth in the direction of Gus's head. "It won't hurt," he said with grin when Gus locked his knees and took two straight legged steps back. He tried to glare but failed, instead reaching up to pat his head as if Shawn had actually managed to get too close. "Don't joke about that, Shawn," he said quietly. Juliet hunched forward, her skin tinted green.

Behind them, Vick cleared her throat. She wasn't thrilled she'd been sucked into their banter. They turned, and she promptly cleared them out of her office with one stern look. Shawn couldn't help asking one more time on the way out. "It's for a good cause, Chief!"

"If the both of you are not in the hallway in five seconds flat, I will call Officer McNab down here to eat your brains— he's turned himself into a zombie for the day." Karen smirked as the pair immediately lost any eager, contrived smiles. She should have felt bad that Mr. Guster looked downright ill, but she didn't. The pair fought for a moment for purchase of the threshold, Gus winning out and vanishing down the hall in a flash.

Once they were gone, Vick took some time to eye the Junior Detective with more concern. When she had entered, Detective O'Hara had seemed just fine— but upon locking eyes with Shawn Spencer— Vick scrunched her nose and furrowed her brows. "Did Mr. Spencer say or do something?" she blurted without thinking it through, surprised to see Juliet inhale sharply then hold in the breath, leaning back in the chair to do so.

"Detect—" Vick began, startled, her metal bangles jangling against one another as she reached out for Juliet's shoulder.

Juliet exhaled, blinking repeatedly. She shook her head, then gripped the back of the chair and tried to stand. "This is silly," she muttered, her eyes drifting towards Vick, though she continued to speak as if only to herself. "It was a fluke. I'm fine. I have work to do." She was on her feet before Karen could stop her, but the Chief's hand did land on her shoulder. Juliet forced a smile, elongating her mouth to make it extra bright— it had to be convincing. "Chief, I'm sorry. I don't know what— it was nothing." She shook her head lightly, wondering what she could do to make Vick release her. "Carlton will gripe at me for a week if I don't go help him— he's right, Halloween is extra psycho overtime time."

"I resent that," Lassiter said, reentering with two small paper cups of water.

Juliet's smile shrunk, but a teasing bit remained on her mouth. "No, you don't. And you're right anyway."

Lassiter usually preened and puffed out his chest to hear such things— he loved to be right and he loved to hear it, but he took her comment with grace: a barely noticeable twitch that could or could not resemble a smile before his mouth set itself back to her care. "Drink," he said, handing over both cups.

"Sip," Vick instructed, as if Juliet had forgotten how to ingest water. "It's not a shot."

Juliet sighed under her breath, taking the waters and doing as asked, refraining from questioning either of her superiors. When she was finished, she stacked the cups one inside the other and crumpled them with a quick squeeze of fist. "Thank you— I'm fine, really." To prove it, she took the first steps away from them before recalling that Vick had requested their appearance. She turned, all business. "Chief, what did you have for us?"

Juliet was surprised when her partner and the Chief exchanged a quick look— those two were not the conspiratorial types with each other. She was a little angered by it at first, but she reasoned she could forgive them— she had obviously startled them with her— what was it? She couldn't dwell on what had happened; it made her feel ill that she couldn't explain it.

* * * * *

_I've known you from dreams— I've known you all my life— every night, every night. You bend down as if to kiss me goodnight, a caress, something sweet— sweet meat, something raw, scratching your claws down my arms. I never asked— I never asked— but I want your kiss. I breathe your kiss. I . . . _

Juliet bit her lip hard, twisting sharply in her chair, her spine popping twice. Daydreaming— she glanced around quickly; if her partner or the Chief were to catch her zoning out— She sighed. _I breathe your kiss. . . ._

"Hey, Jules."

Juliet jumped in her chair, running her palm quickly over her pinned back hair, as if, like in those dreams, her strands were loose, were tangled against the clothing he wore as he pressed down against her— Juliet blushed furiously, ducking her head. She forced out a smile, forced herself to look up at him, hoping the entire time he wouldn't use his psychic senses to see right through her. "Hi, Shawn. Is there something I can do for you?"

Shawn smiled wider; faltering slightly when his grin caused the plastic teeth to ride his tongue like a raft. Turning his head, he managed to spit them into his cupped palm with very little drool. Juliet was watching the whole time, finding herself relieved when the teeth came out, though she chided herself for being unnerved by plastic. Shawn cupped the teeth into a fist, dropping the arm to his side while wiping the string of drool on the back of his cape.

A hint of smile made it to Juliet's lips. She waited.

"I wanted to check on you," he said, trying to look humble and not at all sheepish.

Juliet's hand flew up, patting her hair again before gesturing over her head. "Oh, that? I don't— I don't know what that was." She glanced at his eyes to be assured of their correct color, and then looked away.

"You don't pass out," Shawn continued softly. "Are you sick?"

"No, I'm fine." She sighed. "Tired, maybe, but who isn't? It wasn't anything to worry about— but thanks for your concern."

He smiled. "Jules, I think you should let me talk to the Chief for you— get her to send you home, where I'd tuck you into bed, all snuggley-wuggley—" He hugged his arms around his own body as if to demonstrate.

She felt her cheeks grow hot, yet also felt as if the color was draining from her. Juliet rolled her eyes then. "Get real."

"Come on, Jules," Shawn continued, advancing her quickly, causing the cape to swirl about him. When he smiled again, she could see teeth. But not his own. . . . "Don't you want someone to care for you?"

Her mouth froze. "What the hell are you talking about, Shawn?"

He raised his eyebrows, pulling a grin before washing it with sympathy. "Chicken soup, fluffy pillows, 80's teen horror movie marathons— cuddling. I've already got _Friday the 13th_ parts 1 thru _Freddy vs. Jason_ at the Psych office." He leaned in closer, close enough so she could taste his breath.

"Get lost, Spencer," Lassiter crabbed, knocking Shawn in the shoulder as he passed to create some distance between these two. They were like magnets, the ones attracted to one another, instead of the ones repelled from the other. He'd personally appointed himself to keeping them as far apart as possible as long as he could— given new fuel by the incident a little earlier. Juliet hadn't said a word to him, but since he'd been the one holding onto her, he'd seen that she'd flinched and winced nearly every time Spencer drew closer to her. Something was off; usually he was sickened by their nonstop flirtations, ones he'd taken to ignoring— but whatever this was was harder to ignore.

And he wouldn't go as far to say that his partner seemed unconfident today, but he would agree, should anyone ask, that she was distracted— and for some reason, uncomfortable. Lassiter did not like this. He needed her to be at the top of her game; there were loonies afoot, plus the typical crazies and assholes now hyped up on extra sugar and booze— he sneered at the possibilities right in front of him. "O'Hara's working," he told Spencer, turning so he was flush with Juliet, so she was able to see him when he threw an arm out and caught his palm on Spencer's shoulder. Shawn stumbled back a step.

"Geez, Lassie, I was just trying to invite Jules to a Halloween party." He grinned again, pretending not to see the glare stretching the wrinkles around Lassiter's eyes. "That has a good chance of being departmentally funded."

Lassiter's frown deepened.

"Can't, Shawn," Juliet said shortly. "Busy— work— duty." _With possible gun play on my mind. . . . Do bullets kill vampires?_

"Duty-smooty, it's Halloween!" He bounced on the balls of his feet

"What did you just say?" Lassiter snapped, a devilish light illuminating his pale face. "Doing our jobs does not take a holiday, Spencer."

Shawn straightened, staring at his hand as if mentally counting fingers. A few seconds later, he raised his eyes, confused. "Lassie, I talked to my hand and we both agree that what you just said makes no sense."

"It makes _perfect_ sense!" Lassiter sneered, though his brow furrowed slightly, going through the words again.

"It does _not_—"

"Who's the Head Detective here, me or you?"

"_What_ does that have anything to do with you making sense disgracing Halloween?" Shawn shot back, "a glorious night of an endless, free sugar rushes, tight, short and sexy female costumes and a free pass on all pranks everywhere?"

When the two leaned in as if this stupid argument would come to blows, Juliet grumbled loud enough for both of them to glance at her. She had leaned forward, had pressed her forehead to her palms. "He means that our job is the job, everyday, day in, night out, day out and night in, even on National holidays." She dropped her hands, fixing Shawn with a cold look, before forcing herself to say the words. "Now, get lost."

Lassiter raised an eyebrow, wondering at the same time as Shawn if Juliet had perhaps hit her head when she fainted earlier. Of course, Lassiter knew this wasn't possible, as he'd reacted quickly and caught her before she could end up hurt. He found himself grinning at this "new" Juliet— hoping this wasn't only a "costume" for today.

"Jules!" Shawn gasped, turning his mouth into a wide "O". Quickly, he popped the plastic teeth back over his own and tried out a seductive grin.

"Nice drool," Lassiter snickered.

Shawn sucked some of the escaping salvia back into his mouth, wiping the rest quickly on his white sleeve— an action which also happened to transfer a bit of the red paint drawn on the side of his mouth— and went back to his grin. "Don't you want to join me for a Halloween party, Jules?"

Juliet stared at Shawn's mouth, a flash of light teasing her that the teeth were more than plastic. She shook her head vigorously, willing whatever this happened to be— remnants of the dream, or something else, here, unseen— she scrunched her mouth. She knew herself and she knew she was usually tougher than this.

"It would be a private party, just so you know," Shawn continued, "just the two of us— candlelight, moonlight, a bottle of sweet wine with some Mountain Dew Code Red as a chaser, feeding each other Twizzlers and Snickers bars—"

Lassiter frowned again, making a noise that suggested his disbelief and disgust.

Deciding to be tough, Juliet rolled her eyes, and then she turned to Lassiter and asked for a favor— one that shocked them both and again had them wondering whether she had actually hit her head. "Carlton, could you please escort Shawn as far away from my desk as possible?"

Lassiter's mouth dropped open— then he grinned with his whole face. He'd already been about to throw a punch, being sickened listening to Spencer's continued flirting with his partner, who still appeared strangely drained of her usual sunny color. His arm snaked out and his hand clamped down on Shawn's shoulder.

"Ow, Lassie," Shawn complained, "that hurts." As her partner walked Shawn away from her, Shawn's cape billowed out behind him before swirling again to rest against his back. He managed one straggled look behind him, at her, but was reined in by a sharp tug on his shoulder. Shawn grunted and whined.

"_Oops_," Lassiter mumbled, giddy with a smirk. "Thanks for making my day, partner," he threw over his shoulder to her.

Juliet felt a sense of control returning to see Shawn go— even though she didn't always mind when he was around. Juliet saw Shawn lean his head in as if to bite Lassiter's hand with his plastic mouth.

"Try it and you'll be three days in a cell," Lassiter threatened. Juliet found herself in a smile. It was nice to have her own personal vampire hunter at her side for the day— very nice.


	3. Chapter 3: Like I Might Suck Your Blood

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended. I don't own/own references to David Boreanaz, James Marsters, Alex O'Loughlin, Stephen Moyer, _Moonlight,_ _Moonlighting_, _Twilight_, _Baywatch Nights_, Vlad Dracul, Dracula, Scooby-Doo, and _Buffy the Vampire Slayer._

Minor references to Season One's "Scary Sherry: Bianca's Toast" and Season Three's "Tuesday the 17th".

Author's Note: Long time no update. Anyways, **reviews, feedback, comments and constructive criticism are welcome and highly appreciated****!** Enjoy! Happy Halloween!

################################################################################################################

**Chapter Three:** **You Get Scared When We're Alone Like I Might Suck Your Blood**

#################################################################################################################

Juliet realized, after Shawn was gone, that she hadn't seen him for five days. Not until now—when he came dressed as—a coincidence, that was all.

But where had he been? What had he been up to? Had he been lying in wait somewhere, hiding in the bushes outside her apartment, jimmying her window open—psychically—so he could prey on her in her dreams?

Juliet trembled, paralyzed with possibility. She didn't know the boundaries of Shawn's powers; or why—if—he would choose to clothe himself like a vampire, clamp down on her neck with his jagged teeth, and . . .

The dream pressed on her, had her pinned. She should have screamed, but she could only watch it advance her, in its disguise, in its sexy, altered form, as it leaned down, pressing its wide mouth onto her neck. This dream was now being led, in its sexy, altered form, out of the station by her very determined partner.

_Kiss me like—like I'm dying, or if you are, or if you're going off to war, fought with spears or with knives fashioned out sharpened granite, out of iron touched only by fire. _

Juliet bit her lips, closed her eyes tight.

A coincidence, that was all.

But—where had he been for five days? Wasn't he always hanging around, trying to "divine" out a case, sniffing at her hair? How busy had she been this past week—? A blur; only vivid were her nightly dreams—and today. Today held a pungent sharpness, like something sweetly rotten, too many details too clear, poking at her. Snapping at her. Biting.

_Kiss me lightly, on the forehead, on the cheek. Kiss me with passion, one kiss to last, for when you're all cold in the grave, or for when I am—cold skin, pale, inhuman, sipping your blood like a strong drink. _

She had to keep herself from screaming aloud when she felt a hand firmly grasp her shoulder; she knew, after a bend of fear and longing had passed her by that it was her partner, her "vampire hunter" returning from playing hero to her today. She got to her feet with her eyes only partially open, standing in front of the desk, waiting for him to release her.

She was overcome suddenly; what if he told her to go home—and something happened to him? Juliet's eyes snapped open, wondering what was becoming of her. But the thought twisted in her head: what if he was shot? Or something else mundane occurred but became still a risk? What if . . . he was somehow affected by the otherworldly-ness of this day, of this night? She could imagine, unwillingly, Lassiter going to check out a house alone, for suspicious activity within or without, where a mangy dog with rotting teeth could clamp down on his shoulder, infect him with disease. Rabies . . . the plague . . . werewolf poison. She shook her head forcefully at the image of Lassiter with yellow eyes, peering over her with doubled moons, a second set of teeth lining his own as he smiled raggedly. Impulsively, she asked, "Shawn didn't bite you, did he?"

Lassiter straightened, peering at her from his full height with a look of worry that betrayed any of his usual defensive anger (always, always, at the ready) that Juliet herself wondered if her own mind had been lost somewhere from the doors to the station to here, at her desk. She forced out laughter and another too bright smile. "I'm sorry, that was a terrible attempt at a joke," she said, holding her smile in place, worrying a little when Lassiter's look didn't change. Quickly, she shook her head gently, and thanked him again for escorting Shawn away.

"Did he—do something?" Lassiter asked, keeping his eyes fixed on hers even as he relaxed his stance, pulling his hand away from her shoulder to insert almost casually into one of his slacks' side pockets. "Do something to you?" He had reached for her again when she shook her head, as if she'd needed to banish something terrible, but had stopped midway when he understood, by a quick flicker of her eyes away from his, that the gesture was making her nervous. "Something stupider than usual?"

A look of tightness peeled away from Juliet's face, with it, her smile, and she shook her head again, this time even more slowly. "It's not—um, no." She bit her lip, struggling for coherent thoughts. "It's me—not, um, sleeping well." She rolled her eyes, then closed them, uncomfortable that Lassiter wouldn't let their gaze drop; knowing he was still holding the channel between them open, waiting for her to come back. Why _today_ did he have to pick to care about her well-being so much?

"We should—get going, shouldn't we?" Juliet said, opening her eyes, her tone soft and serious. "It's still early—we can head things off if we leave now."

"How do you know that?" Lassiter asked, raising an eyebrow. She saw that he was starting to shape a question about some of Shawn's "bullshit psychic mojo" rubbing off onto her—so she froze his words by grabbing his arm, by playing up to what she believed she needed to do to get him moving and back to his old self.

"Because I'm a good cop, and so are you, partner. Let's go save Halloween."

Lassiter raised the other eyebrow, but his mouth broke into a quick smile.

Juliet nodded, her stomach tight with the breath she was holding in. "You've got enough ammo? It might be rough out there." When the corners of his eyes pulled tight with annoyance, she relaxed.

"You're messing with me, aren't you?" he asked, retrieving his gun from his shoulder holster to check the clip in front of her.

Juliet rolled her eyes, hoping the moments of what was their normalcy would last. "Carlton, what would I have to gain from that? I still have to ride in the car with you all day." She raised an eyebrow for emphasis. Doing so made the back of her neck feel oddly exposed—her veins plump, ripe, ready to burst. It chagrined her to realize her partner had caught that private breath of nothingness at the back of her neck and the way she'd run her fingers around her throat without touching the skin.

Wordlessly, he reached out to her, ushering her towards the hallway with the lightest touch on her shoulder blades. Inwardly, Juliet sighed, knowing she would have to continue to accept whatever protective notion Lassiter had today—until it ran its course. Certainly it would, right?

Thankfully, Halloween wasn't every day.

# # # # #

"All I want to know is if you put something in her drink," Gus continued, ignoring Shawn's curled up lip, his sneer through plastic teeth. He was convinced Shawn was behind Juliet's strange episode back at the station.

"Sumving like vhat?" Shawn gripped. "Vhy vould I do vat?"

"Slipped her a tab of LSD?"

"Gust," Shawn began, shocked, "vere vould I get—"

"You got something out of my case of samples and gave it to her, didn't you? Hallucinations are for doctors' paying clients only."

"Vho sait she vas hallufinating?"

"That's a terrible excuse for a Transylvanian accent," Gus commented, mostly tired of seeing Shawn literally spit a majority of his words.

"How vould vou know?" Shawn's sneer widened, his cape fluttering behind him as he dropped into the passenger seat of Gus's Echo. "Gif me your hand," he told Gus once his friend was behind the wheel.

"Did you or didn't you?"

"Nooooooooooooo," Shawn moaned. "Vhy vould I? Now, gif! Gif! Gif!"

Before thinking it through, Gus complied, repulsed suddenly as his eyes—not his brain—watched Shawn spit out his fake vampire teeth directly into his open palm. "SHAWN!" Gus batted the the teeth back in Shawn's direction, finding himself only slightly satisfied to see the plastic bounce off of Shawn's lapel.

"What's the matter?" Shawn asked, a mischievous gleam in his eye. "It's not like it's covered in the blood of innocents."

Gus scowled, but managed to wipe his palm on Shawn's cape before Shawn could squeak his own disgust.

"First of all, I'm appalled you would think such terrible things of me when it comes to the lovely Detective O'Hara. You should be ashamed! Second, I'm craving pizza with a sweet sauce, ham and pineapple, you want to go halfsies?"

"I could eat," Gus said. "I want you to know that those drug questions were completely in character for my costume. I think whomever made this authentic shirt was high as a kite and wanted everyone else to be too."

"You want to know the true story?" Shawn asked, quickly continuing before Gus's raise of eyebrow could turn into phrasing stating that "true story" and anything Shawn said could not be on the level true in the same sentence. "The true story is that Jules was so overcome with my overt manly sexiness, the most natural response for her was to faint." Gus snorted, focusing on the drive. Shawn continued, "It's like I told you earlier: deep down, she really is a vampire groupie who wants to make out and do other super naughty things with her favorite vampire."

"David Boreanaz?"

"No."

"James Marsters?"

"No," Shawn spat. "Have you seen his hair?"

"Reminds me of Malibu you, Shawn."

"You're not funny, Gus. Malibu Shawn's hair is much sleeker than that British's guys hair will ever be."

"He's not British. The accent is fake. Fine, what about Stephen Moyer? I could see Jules wanting to do bad things with—"

Shawn growled.

Gus grinned. "What about that teenage vampire that sparkles?"

"Real vampires don't sparkle. Real vampires burst into flames at the smallest hint of sunlight." Shawn tapped his chest proudly, the sunlight glinting off his medallion.

"Like you, out in the sunlight just like—"

"Just like Alex O'Loughlin from _Moonlighting_. Or Moonlit? Moonlighted? _Moonlight?_"

"I think it was _Baywatch Nights_," Gus corrected. "You're thinking of the time that that dead serial killer's blood infected people via the traffic accident and made them do murderous things. Literally."

"No, I'm pretty sure it wasn't. And I'm pretty sure I wasn't."

"Alex O'Loughlin wasn't that kind of vampire, anyway. But he didn't sparkle either. Weird," Gus considered.

"It doesn't matter. You're wrong. I'm more like Vlad Dracul Dracula from season four of _Buffy the Vampire Slayer_. Buffy swooned over him just because he was a big name. This is exactly what's going on here!" He sounded too excited.

"Uh, huh," Gus muttered.

"There's no question. _I'm_ Jules' favorite vampire—and Santa Barbara's favorite Vampire Psychic Detective!"

"If that's your new title, you'll have to order new business cards. And we'll have to start booking more client meetings at night. But that means our cliental will likely be stranger than right now. And we've already had a werewolf."

Shawn thought about this, clasping and unclasping his white gloved hands. "Point taken."

"Are you _really_ her type, Shawn?" Gus groused. "Maybe her blood type, only?"

Shawn looked offended. "Of course I'm her type. I'm her perfect vampire type. Tall, dark, and bloodsucking."

"Tall?" Gus asked, smirking.

"Two out of three isn't bad," Shawn shot back. "Where are you going?"

"The Psych office. Unless you wanted to start trick-or-treating right now."

Shawn scoffed. "What am I, five? It's not even dark yet."

"That's what I'm talking about. Even your dad let us go trick-or-treating after dark."

"Not like your parents," Shawn winked.

"At least my parents didn't make me take every piece of my candy to the police station to check to see if it was poisoned."

"My dad would say that was because they didn't care."

"Your dad did say that. Every year. Yet my parents still let me go every year after."

"They thought you were safer riding around in a police car to trick-or-treat."

The two of them looked at each other, both thinking the same thing. "Maybe that's why neither of were popular with the other kids," Gus offered.

"Speak for yourself," Shawn scoffed. "I was plenty enough cool." He ignored Gus laughing at his lie. To change the subject he asked, "You really think I would do something bad to Juliet? Scare her?"

Gus shrugged, his eyes still gleaming. "Not bad, per se. But wouldn't you like to scare her enough so she jumps right into your arms?" He winked.

"If history has taught us anything, Gus, it's likely to be the other way around." Shawn couldn't help remembering himself hiding in the closet in broad daylight at Camp Tikihama when Juliet arrived. Juliet was never scared, and though he liked to pretend she'd bought his tall tale about needing dark space sometimes because the spirits voices' were often too loud, he guessed uneasily that she had let him have his lies because she actually believed he was psychic. "It'd be like Shaggy cradling Scooby-Doo who was shaking his ass off at a man under sheet pretending to be a ghost. But hopefully ten times sexier than that. Scratch that, that wasn't sexy. But it means Shaggy is freakishly strong. Scooby-Doo is a great dane. I bet Juliet is freakishly strong, and I'm a great—"

Gus shook his head. The shiny metallic colors of his shirt bounced light around the car. "Please stopping painting this picture in my head."

"I will if you turn your shirt off until nighttime."

"Dusk," Gus countered.

Shawn considered it. "Deal."

At a light, Gus retrieved his windbreaker from the backseat and shrugged it on.

Shawn's eyes gleamed, spotting a sign that held his eye. "Let's not go to the Psych office yet. You up for a slight detour?" He gestured where to go.

"As long as we get something to eat. A man cannot live on Halloween on candy alone."

# # # # #

Even in the safe metal boundaries of Lassiter's car, Juliet hugged her arms around herself. Since sitting down, a feeling had gathered about her throat like a too tight scarf; there was a little bit of the dream still tickling her heels, using its tiny, ghostly fingers to reach up her legs. And there was the pounding of fear from earlier, a stupid thing she couldn't shake: What if something terrible happened to her partner?

When he got in the car, she almost blurted out that she wanted to drive, though she knew she was hardly in the shape to. She felt like a little girl with a homemade Halloween costume, knowing it was homemade, not store bought; the feelings coming to her were boarding on ridiculous now. Continuing down this strange road, she wondered if Shawn hadn't, somehow, opened a door to her mind on the very last day of the Celtic year, as if he knew that this was the day when veils between the two worlds were the thinnest.

Juliet shivered as Lassiter started the engine. "You know," she began to break what she considered uncomfortable silence, "the really crazy people don't need a special holiday as an excuse. To be lunatics."

Lassiter turned his head towards her, raising an eyebrow with confusion and a dare, before pulling his eyes back to the rearview mirror so he could get them safely out of the parking lot. He bit his lip, forcing himself to offer a tight nod because he did agree with her statement, though he also believed that the really crazy people thrived for these special holidays. But it felt good, warm inside his chest—a feeling usually reserved for only when he'd made an arrest or got a confession—to feel like he was being protective of her. He couldn't explain why, but it felt necessary.

# # # # #

The feeling passed, as they trolled the mostly quiet roads, and Juliet's fears lessened, as did the tight knot in her throat, as did the blood pulsing loudly in her ears, that her partner was in any danger. He could easily be a brick of ice in a nice suit, she decided, his usual self, checking his mirrors obsessively, on constant guard for those starting any "parties" early. But instead of a brick of ice, Juliet felt he was a solid source, there for her even in her unusual hysterics. Almost compassionate. It made her shiver.

The dream's formlessness was still attached to her; caught in her passenger side door, it writhed and moaned at her feet, demanding release. It told her it wanted to curl around her shoulders—annoyed it had to settle for tickling her legs—whisper some sweet nothingness into her ear, want her to fall back into a deep sleep.

A deep sleep where he was waiting for her, where his dream self and her dream self played out the same scenes, where he would sink his teeth in, pierce her, bleed her, drain her, bring her skin to a consistency of parchment paper. She was his perfect type—his desired blood type, the sweetest blood he'd ever had. It told her all of this silently. She was glad Lassiter couldn't hear the "whine" of its needing.

Had Shawn really been floating towards her while the Chief's office filled up with fog? Why the plastic teeth? What was he hiding just beyond them?

He'd seemed concerned enough, had even offered to take her home . . . so he could stay. Take really good care of her. Romance her. Seduce . . . comfort . . . kiss . . . Her breath caught. There were other words but she turned towards the window, blushing. He was leaning over her, his red eyes bright, not a hair on his head out of place. How could she be certain this wasn't Shawn's true face? She couldn't . . . ever invite him in. But what if . . . what if she somehow already had?


	4. Chapter 4: Through The Hidden Door

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended. Some information about Halloween's history is directly quoted from this website: http:/[dot]jeremiahproject[dot]com/culture/halloween[dot]html (source) I do not own content of this website and am simply borrowing the information of Halloween's history for this story. I've put extra quotation marks in those sections.

Author's Note: Reviews, feedback, comments and constructive criticism are welcome and appreciated. Thank you. :)

#################################################################################################################################

**Chapter Four: Someone Slipping In Through The Hidden Door**

#################################################################################################################################

# # #

Gus stared at Shawn on the way out the door, the double bell above the door chiming again. "How did you know that? And how do you know that—"

"Tut tut, my disbelieving, disapproving friend," Shawn cut in. "Quit staring at me like I'm really psychic and you had no idea! It's eerie."

"I can't help myself. You are kind of eerie today."

Shawn beamed. "That's what Halloween is for! Gus, we were in the Chief's office for at least five minutes. My eyes wandered, after, like, thirty-six seconds. It wasn't that hard to figure out why she let everyone dress up today."

Gus shrugged. "Lassiter's going to be mad when he finds out—"

"Tut tut tut!" Shawn tsked. "He's not going to find out—"

Gus raised an eyebrow. "Really? Really, Shawn, REALLY? How is he NOT going to find out?"

Shawn rocked back and forth on his heels, the reality seeming to sink in. "Oh. I see your point." He paused. "Oh, well." He raised both eyebrows, and speaking in a British accent, said, "Won't you join me for a goblet of blood?" He tried to cackle like Béla Lugosi.

As soon as the images connected in Gus's head, his cheeks puffed up like he was getting nauseated. "Why did you—?" Gus ran the rest of the way to the Echo. "I can't be sick in my company car!" He flailed as if he'd stepped on a bee.

Shawn watched him, calling out, "Does that mean you still want to get food? Gus? Gus?"

# # #

The day was still new, the autumn sun not yet a full blaze. Juliet lost herself staring out the window for a little while, holding her breath as if to ward off a batch of aggressive hiccups. She only breathed in again when she was dizzy enough to see spots.

_Could he really find her here, get in, scratch his nails against her skin, go in deeper?_

In spite of the softness of the many festive decorations from street to street—even the hint of a few costumed adults or children heading off for work or school—Juliet refused to let herself be tempted. Since the last bout of excited, tormented fear was spent—or sleeping—for now, Juliet had geared herself up to be alert, ready to go after the sharper edges of the holiday—whatever those might be.

Juliet turned from the window, looking ahead. Still, she could feel Lassiter eyeing her as he drove. It felt like a laser on skin. No matter what, she mused, he'd refused to let this go. Juliet's palms sweated. She had do something to banish the renewal of her panic so it didn't lead to trouble for either of them. She pressed air around in her mouth, little bubbles that might contain treasures if only she could open them, get them out. The radio crackled, making head her pound.

Instinctively, she reached for it. It was something, a crime, a perfect interruption. This was better. This was something she could handle. She grinned to herself when Lassiter swung the car around.

# # #

Shawn stood in front of a full length mirror in the Psych office, examining his costume again. He liked the way he looked in it, even though it was not what he'd intended to buy when he went to Halloween Costume Extravaganza!, a seasonal place that sprouted up across town in a vacant space that used to be a grocery store. Every year, the store name was different, but the product was essentially the same, with a few variations on the theme, due to pop culture or recent criminal infamy.

He hadn't even intended to dress up—not this much. Gus always liked to go all out, stating it was his right on Halloween to not dress the way he did the rest of the year. Shawn could be happy with a just a mask or some fake blood.

That's . . . that's what had gotten him into trouble.

Remembering it, Shawn winced at little, giving himself a sheepish look in the mirror. He was hardly one to be charmed—persuaded—into doing anything, unless he was somehow calling the shots. With bossy salespeople, Shawn was best when he was doing the charming, getting himself a great deal—or free samples—with his very special "gift". And those who didn't like his "gift" were more than eager to cut him free.

Gus had left him in an aisle, running off to examine something shiny. Something glittery enough to almost blind Shawn. He didn't listen when Shawn yelled after him that Gus would never be able to pull that off; Shawn grinned when he saw that the shiny was attached to a pretty girl. He hoped he'd long distance dissuaded her from letting Gus talk to her.

Turning away, Shawn wandered down the aisle, then down another. He'd stopped in front of a display, picked up a tube of blood and imagined all the ways he could torture Gus with it for abandoning him. He'd been so into the gross-out fantasies, snickering to himself, that he hadn't heard someone come up to stand next to him.

"Ah, you like vampires?"

Shawn dropped the tube in surprise, turning to see an old, shrunken bald headed Chinese man standing next to him. He bent to pick up the tube, setting it back on the display quickly as he scanned the man. He couldn't immediately tell if the old man was an employee, a friendly citizen or crazy. He was at a loss for words.

"You like vampires?" the old man said again, smiling, revealing a few missing teeth.

"Vampires," Shawn repeated. "I—"

The man gestured a gnarled finger towards the display—a fanciful mix of red body paint, fake blood—in tubes, jars, and packets, red and black nail polishes, false eyelashes, plastic fangs and various colored hair gels and sprays.

There was an off-color joke or two on his tongue about the discrimination against werewolves or serial killers, but Shawn was strangely transfixed. The aisle—holding just the two of them—felt stuffy and cramped. "Vampires . . . are all right," he heard himself saying, his own voice sounding distant.

"Hungry ghosts," the man said, though Shawn had no idea what he meant. He gestured towards the display, then retrieved the tube of blood Shawn had been holding. He pressed the tube into Shawn's hands. An electric chill shot up Shawn's back, but he just stared at the man, as if unable to move. "We celebrate. Some fear."

Shawn nodded, though he couldn't say why.

And he couldn't remember what he'd come in to buy. "You want costume?" the man asked him, smiling with friendly dark brown eyes. Shawn nodded. "I have costume for you."

"You do?" Shawn asked. "For me?"

"For you," the man assured him. His eyes twinkled. As he started walking, Shawn followed, unable to make out any faint voices behind the veil of curiosity that were telling him to run.

Gus caught up with him sometime later—after asking around and then finally having him paged. By then, it was too late. He'd gasped to see his friend decked out in full Vampire regalia, Béla Lugosi _Dracula_ style.

"Shawn!" Gus stared at him, looking him up and down several times. "What . . . what the hell happened?"

Shawn, wearing the fake teeth, cackled. "Vow do I lvook?" He fanned out the cape, even pulling up across his eyes once. When Gus didn't answer, Shawn pointed to the top of his own head. "And myv hair iz verfect!"

Gus appeared behind him, still chewing the last of their recent meal. He rolled his eyes. "How long are you going to keep standing there?"

"Until I'm satisfied," Shawn blurted out, his grin fierce.

"You're unbelievable. I thought you wanted to hear about Halloween's history. Maybe get some insight into—" Gus sighed. "Maybe so _I_ can get some insight as to why you and Juliet are acting nuts today." He pursed his lips. "You're not secretly dating, are you?"

He sounded so dejected that Shawn actually laughed. He let his reflection go, walking away from the mirror. "Gus, I would tell you if I were secretly dating Jules. . . . Eventually." He winked as Gus muttered under his breath.

He followed Gus back to their desks, but he kept standing while Gus said down in front of his laptop. "I still can't believe you bought that costume," Gus said, giving Shawn a semi-incredulous look.

"I still can't believe you bought _that_ costume," Shawn counted, raising an eyebrow at the shiny material mostly concealed under the windbreaker. "Are you sure that _you_ weren't the one getting hypnotized or whatever by that sweet space girl you were chatting up?"

Gus frowned. "She made a valid point—these colors bring out the softer tones in my eyes, Shawn."

"Really? Because they bring up my lunch." He smirked at Gus, who looked annoyed. "Admit it, you were trying to impress her and give her a big sale. Did you at least get her number?"

Gus frowned deeper. "What do you think I am, an amateur?"

Shawn laughed, then circled back. "That old dude didn't hypnotize me, Gus. He just . . . put a spell on me." He did his best impersonation of Screamin' Jay Hawkins. He frowned suddenly. "He made me spend my own money." But he brightened again. "But I look hot in it!"

Gus shook his head. He was still not sure what to make of any of it, but he couldn't put it past Shawn to shock him—even if it wasn't intended.

And by Juliet's reaction to the costume—Gus might even have to admit that it was a hit. If a hit could be counted by someone like Juliet fainting dead away as if she were a helpless victim in a Gothic novel. It all made Gus feel uneasy, though he couldn't easily say why. Even the way he'd found Shawn—when he'd finally strode to the front of the store—grinning and bouncing, he'd been already in costume, refusing to take it off.

That was five days ago—too soon for an adult to get away with putting on a Halloween costume. Still, Shawn had put on a good show on the way home—telling everyone in every public place they encountered that he was Spenzar, the mystic psychic vampire. His happiness had been kind of contagious, Gus had to admit. He'd warmed up to Shawn's odd behavior eventually, eagerly playing along with Shawn's parlor tricks, feeling in better spirits by the time they got back to the Psych office.

But he was grateful that the costume had not made its reappearance until today. Stealing glances at his friend, Gus had an odd sense that the costume was wearing Shawn, rather than the other way around.

"So, what kind of boring ancient history did you dig up?" Shawn asked.

Gus sighed. "Have you already started turning me out, or do you genuinely want to know?"

Shawn feigned a few seconds of distraction. His eyes twinkled. "Sorry, Gus, did you just say something important?"

"Do you want to know?"

"Should I want to know?" Shawn teased.

Ignoring him, Gus started, "Halloween is the time of year on the Celtic calendar linked to _Samhain—_meaning_ 'summer's end'_—which was an Irish harvest festival held October 31-November 1. It was considered a time when the veils between the two worlds—"

"Veils?" Shawn broke in. "You mean scarves? Bride or belly dancers, Gus?"

Gus glared at him, and continued reading, "Veils or divisions—life and death, or the living world and the spiritual world—were the very thinnest. This is the time of year, the precise day to make wishes to usher in the good, and to honor the memories of those already passed on. 'The Celtics in Ireland believed _Samhain_ was a time when hostile supernatural forces were active and ghosts and spirits were free to wander as they wished.'"

Gus read the next part, seemingly a passage from a Celtic Mythology book, to himself.

_"During this interval the normal order of the universe is suspended, the barriers between the natural and the supernatural are temporarily removed, the sidh lies open and all divine beings and the spirits of the dead move freely among men and interfere sometimes violently, in their affairs." _

Shawn interrupted him. "That's the exciting history you said I needed to know?"

Not wanting to be scoffed at, Gus found a section on the origins of Trick-or-Treating. "You'll like this, it's about candy and trick-or-treating." As he read, he heard Shawn protest about the little candy mentions, but he went on.

"'Some trace the origins of present day "trick-or-treat" to _Samhain_, when spirits of the dead would rise out of their graves and wander the countryside, trying to return to the homes where they formerly lived. Frightened villagers tried to appease these wandering spirits by offering them gifts of fruit and nuts. They began the tradition of placing plates of the finest food and bits of treats that the household had to offer on their doorsteps, as gifts, to appease the hunger of the ghostly wanderers. If not placated, villagers feared that the spirits would kill their flocks or destroy their property.'"

Shawn had only been partially listening, not quite engrossed until he heard 'appease the hunger of the ghostly wanderers.' He gasped softly to himself, scrolling back a few days, finding the old man's friendly smile—hearing him say something about "hungry ghosts". This still—almost meant nothing to him—and seemed to have little to do with making a sale at a Halloween costume store. Gulping, he focused all of his attention on Gus, and what he had to say.

"'The problem was,'" Gus continued, "'if the souls of dead loved ones could return that night, so could anything else, human or not, nice or not-so-nice. The only thing the superstitious people knew to do to protect themselves on such an occasion was to masquerade as one of the demonic hoard, and hopefully blend in unnoticed among them. Wearing masks and other disguises and blackening the face with soot were originally ways of hiding oneself from the spirits of the dead who might be roaming around. This is the origin of Halloween masquerading as devils, imps, ogres, and other demonic creatures.'"

Shawn felt around for his desk chair, not understanding his body's reaction. He just knew he had to sit. Something, maybe from the ground beneath him, was pulling him down.


	5. Chapter 5: Late By Half A Century

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended. Don't own references to Tim Burton's _The Nightmare Before Christmas_; Béla Lugosi; Jack Black; Ouija boards; _Ghostbusters_; _Psych_ Season One's "Scary Sherry: Bianca's Toast".

Wink, wink. The phrase Shawn utters later in this chapter comes from a really old book I'd happened to pick up. I really wondered, along the lines of Gus's rebuttal, if that's the word choice that might have been meant. ;)

Author's Note: Reviews, feedback, comments and constructive criticism are welcomed and appreciated. Really love to know what you think. Thank you and enjoy!

#############################################################################################################################

**Chapter Five: They Say I'm Late By Half A Century **

#############################################################################################################################

Gus looked up. "Shawn? You all right?"

Shawn's upper lip twitched. He had no explanation for what had just come over him. He didn't really believe in any of this—spirits, they were his best imaginary coworkers.

He fought for humor to deal; he hoped the twitch would blossom into even a ghostly smile. Gus was now staring at him expectantly, waiting for either an explanation or at the very least a lame joke to put him at ease. Shawn quickly wrestled with the possibility—less the consequences—of telling Gus what had _really_ happened with the old man at the costume store.

It would be, Shawn thought with a smirk to himself, the perfect opportunity—and on the scariest day of the year, too—to frighten his best friend even more so than already. And also, selfishly, Shawn wanted to confide in Gus—in spite of his chagrin at being "taken for a ride" by someone else—about the real reason he had purchased the costume. Especially when he'd only intended to _rent_.

He'd only given Gus half-truths; Gus was usually satisfied with those, hardly ever asking for more.

"Dude, it's nothing," Shawn said, ignoring the minor squeak in his voice. He fought his mouth into a half smile, baring his teeth. Inside his head, a little vampire version and a little regular version of him sparred as Shawn ran through the information Gus had just read to him about the origins of Halloween. _'The problem was . . . anything could return, nice or not. . . . Wearing masks . . . ' _

Again, Shawn fought his body as a shiver began at the base of his spine, this time wriggling his whole body right out of the chair as if he were a child jumping off a swing. He regretted standing so fast because in spite of having just eaten he felt lightheaded, as if he might topple over. The sensation that had come over him before, the one that had insisted he _sit down now _still had a good grip on his shoulders. For the first time he considered this ridiculousness extending as far as to a sensible person like Juliet; _what could have been the reason she fainted?_

_Was he just . . . really . . . _that_ sexy? _That _alluring?_

To allay his own ridiculous disconcertion, Shawn gazed down at his costume and remembered the way he'd felt just days ago when he'd first put it on. It had fit as if it had been specifically made for him. When he'd finally extracted his body from the material, he'd taken extra care hanging it up, as if it would somehow _know_ otherwise.

Gus watched Shawn's "act" without saying anything. He wasn't sure what he could say that wouldn't bring about ridicule or relentless teasing for the rest of the night, and he'd been determined for weeks that he was going to enjoy Halloween as if he were a kid again—and not have to solve a murder or any other crime that Shawn might steer them into until it was November. There was a notion on the tip of his tongue that Shawn was wearing the _wrong_ mask if he was trying to blend in with wandering ghosts, imps and demons, but Gus couldn't figure out a reason why. Gus could only hope that _he_ was shiny enough to blind or distract demons long enough so he could hide behind a grave stone or tree; but Shawn looked like he could _be_ one of them. This thought process confused him, because if Shawn _looked_ like one of _them_, then the demons would be less likely to drag Shawn back to the underworld with them. Right? Still, Gus was nagged by a wrongness he couldn't put his finger on.

Shawn felt the feeling pass, winding its way elsewhere. He ignored that it paused at the door, as if unsure of where to go now. "I think a ghost just walked right through me," he told Gus, grinning widely. His eyes twinkled.

"Are you sure it went all the way through?" Gus muttered, navigating away from the web page. He was no longer interested in learning anything else, and still had no answers to explain Juliet's—let alone Shawn's—out of character weirdness. His mouse paused on a link and he eyed it, pondering if he should click it.

_The vampire archetype._ Gus's mouse hovered over the link. He dropped it down to highlight the text, and hoped if he clicked it there wouldn't be consequences similar to playing with a Ouija board. Maybe . . . maybe he shouldn't want to know.

It was too possible Shawn was messing with him—he'd done it too many times before; he could have gotten Juliet in on it, whatever it was. Gus tried to be mad at both of them, just in case, but he still wondered if he was misplacing fear.

Halloween, after all, was supposed to be fun-scary day. He and Shawn (as well as the police) dealt with cases all the time that were hyped up to be more than they were—and always, at the end of the day, they turned out to be caused by human devices. Still, Gus had his own superstitions; nervous to this day about curses of mummies and the possible existence of ghosts in many guises. It was more than possible, Gus told himself, that Juliet was simply overstressed at work—perhaps not sleeping as well or pulling too many over-nighters this month—and that it was not the sight of Shawn in a costume—or even just the sight of Shawn—that had caused her reaction. Or maybe, it was the sight of usually straitlaced Vick dressed up like a groupie that had pushed her over the edge, Gus mused. He grinned, thinking about it.

"What's so funny?" Shawn asked, his curiosity piqued. He took it as a good sign that Gus didn't look as tense as he had a few minutes ago. Maybe he could . . . spare Gus the details of the hungry ghosts and everything for a little while longer.

"I was just thinking that Juliet was overwhelmed by Vick's costume and that's why she fainted when she came into the office," Gus said with a giggle and a snicker. He waited for Shawn to join in.

Shawn stared down at his costume, admiring it again. He'd come to like his reasoning better; still, he quipped, "Or maybe her corset was too tight," considering the heroines who wore the long red dresses and waited in towers, their mouths shaping Os at every flicker of shadow; standing still without breath when the vampire approached them. From the way Gus's smile hitched, as if frozen in granite, Shawn guessed he'd stuck his foot in his mouth. He understood then that reading up on the history might have been a ploy—a tactic to weird him out but it had backfired and just freaked Gus out. Shawn's lip twitched again. Okay . . . so maybe it hadn't _entirely_ backfired. He forced himself to cough. "Yeah, you're probably right," Shawn said, feeling a bit like Sally the Rag Doll from _The Nightmare Before Christmas_ with a stitched up smile. "Juliet has no idea what's in store for her—and, I _knew_ the Chief was fibbing when she said there was no party. No party on Halloween?"

"I wonder why we weren't invited," Gus mused. He raised an eyebrow, a nod-smirk in Shawn's direction. "Probably because the Chief doesn't want to pay us to party."

"Psschaw, Gus. It's not really a party—well, maybe it is but it's really masquerading as official police business!"

Gus hated the way Shawn's eyes gleamed. "What? Who killed Mr. Jack Black Jack-O-'Lantern?" he threw out skeptically.

Shawn shook his head, starting to look the way children look when it is explained, for the first time, that Halloween means _free candy _(with minimal effort).

"Shawn," Gus said firmly, "I told you that this Halloween you have to save all of your crimes for November. A 24 hour period. No Scary Sherry urban legends. No werewolves. I ain't afraid of no ghosts, Shawn."

"Who you gonna call? Party crashers! On Halloween—like they'd even know."

"Shawn, we aren't wearing masks," Gus pointed out. Against his own will, Gus found himself excited over the notion of crashing some kind of police sting that was masquerading as a grand Halloween affair. He shook his head, trying to clear it. Earlier, at the station, he'd almost literally run into Buzz McNab. Chief Vick hadn't been joshing them; Buzz had done himself up as a very frightening looking zombie. As Gus gasped for air, Buzz had broken into a wide grin, betraying his monster makeup. "You can relax, Gus," the six-foot-five zombie told him conspiratorially. "Francie told me I have to be a vegetarian zombie."

Gus stared back, unnerved by the officer's usual grin on the face he wore today. "Does that mean . . . that you only eat vegetarians' brains?"

Buzz's grin flattened, replaced by a look of pure confusion. But then he'd started to nod. "That . . . that must be it." He smiled again, and winked. "You're a meat eater, right?"

"Damn straight," Gus answered.

This was, luckily, the moment that Gus saw Lassiter dragging Shawn towards him. He had been surprised Lassiter had not grabbed Shawn by the ear. "Is this your cue?" Buzz whispered, his eyes twinkling. He got himself back to work before Lassiter could grab him by the shoulder and drag him away too.

"Speak for yourself," Shawn mock-huffed in the present, pretending to be miffed. He pulled the cape up to his eyes with an unnecessary flourish. The act was a little too natural, too perfect, as if Shawn had spent years mimicking it.

Gus rolled his eyes, and pretended he wasn't going to have nightmares later about Béla Lugosi flying around his head in the shape of a bat, dive bombing him. He wondered, suddenly, if this all wasn't too much for him. Maybe he shouldn't have insisted on making such a big deal out of "going all out" to celebrate this holiday.

"Come on, we need to go back to the station!" Shawn said. He popped the fangs back into his mouth, then said, "I half a grave idea!" When he turned in profile, a glint of sunlight fell against his teeth. Gus followed him out of the office, pretending not to notice.

# # # # #

The call had nothing to do with Halloween mischief; in spite of getting to pull out her gun and yell out with authority her favorite initials, Juliet wound up disappointed. She and Lassiter split up, tramping around the building's back and front doors, entering in quickly to make a full search.

Dark, musty, with no one hiding out. Its rotted wooden floors smelled like a squatter or two used it—people who never bathed or changed clothes. Together, Juliet and Lassiter searched the grounds, aware at all times of what could be lurking—even in mostly open space.

The old shack slouched forward as if ashamed to be sitting on such green land. Juliet took in the foliage quickly—a wide swatch of stubby green grass pausing at a half moon of overgrown weeds, tall leaves and stalks, all almost as tall as she was.

Lassiter, unafraid, stepped right into it, trying to get a good look. Was it so easy to hide in there if you were a person, as tall as she was or as tall he was, or not? Juliet listened for rustling; somewhere, a property line must be drawn. Whoever it was they were looking for could be long gone, off causing trouble somewhere else. Jumping from shadow to shadow.

After a thorough search, they called it in. Lassiter was not as angry as she thought he'd be; on the way back to the station, his mouth sat in a long, ashen line. Finally he muttered, "First prank of the day?" to no one in particular—certainly not to her.

Juliet wanted to answer, wanted to say that someone was there—had been, at one time, clinging to the inky shadows, pressing their body against the door, holding in breath. But she didn't really know that for certain—and it didn't help that there had been no one around to talk to. No one on the property and neighbors who refused to answer the door. Still, it had been someone's real voice on the phone, directing someone in uniform to drive out.

The field behind the shack was almost like stepping into another season. There, it was barely Autumn; within the weeds there was a tease of heady August. Juliet was relieved she had not also gone into them, had not been asked to. She had only once turned her back to be assured some unseen enemy was not sneaking up on them while Lassiter was vulnerable; the shack remained soundless, the rest of the field clear. No one, it seemed, was watching them. She kept the gun in her hand, at her side, until Lassiter emerged.

What he'd really meant, she assumed, was that they still had to fill out a report in spite of not finding anything—and that it was unlikely to be the only report about "ghosts" for the day. But for the moment, Juliet was happy for the distraction. The adrenaline she'd assumed for the pursuit of crime had slinked off when it was learned crime might not have even made an appearance in the area.

Every now and then, at a light, Lassiter would glance at her out of the corner of his eye. When he'd come out of the tangle of weeds, there had been a brief distortion of her face, as if she expected he was to be swallowed up in there. Then, relief. She'd put away her gun, flexing her knuckles which had turned white. Lassiter wasn't sure what to make of it, but now, she seemed fine—and not at all the strange little girl she'd been earlier.

He wasn't convinced this state would last; he set his mouth. What he was convinced he had to do was keep her away from Spencer, at least for the rest of today. Not a chore—it would be a pleasure.

# # # # #

_Seen her, pressing her back to the shadows; had one hand of ghostly, fog-like fingers, clutching the floor boards. Peered up at her, standing directly above; all kinds trespassed, but mostly of the human kind, through heaps of years, on this one day of sight. The present glittered with opportunity; reached out silently . . . grabbed onto a shoe; she possessed a wealth of strength—and was already in a state of reeling here in the daylight hours of the thirty-first day of October. New and pure as a child, this one was. _

_She had already . . . been bitten, was susceptible to all charms from the dawn to the midnight hours. She wouldn't even . . . she wouldn't even know . . . not until it was far too late. _

_One night, just one night—ninety years on the dot. _

_Almost . . . no, forgotten entirely what it was like to . . . to be. Feared. This one . . . she was made afraid of something; deliciously mouthwatering, her precise apprehension—a quick brush against her nylons, a shiver from both of them. Written in the stars, this was. Wasn't it worth the wait?_

# # # # #

Juliet went on ahead; upon getting out of the car, Lassiter realized his shoes had become a magnet for stray glass, and headed to the men's room to get cleaned up.

The air around her was its usual cool; air conditioning was a necessity year round (something she had already been used to, coming in from tropical Miami), but didn't she just get a tickle of something throwing its invisible arms around her waist? Because she was so thin, it made to draw in tight, but Juliet gasped. A half second of alarm; she thought she could see her breath.

A nervous laugh came from just down the hallway, not more than twenty feet away. She couldn't see anything from here, but the hallway had curves and angles. A small warning hitched in her, but she wanted to see now, not wait for her partner to reappear to "hold her hand" (even the metaphorical thought of it made her feel odd).

The laughter, Juliet found out, belonged to a few young, uniformed officers who quickly scattered when they saw her coming. They had been gathered in a small group off to the side, watching Shawn who stood in the middle of the hallway, his arms and legs spread out as if he were about to start doing jumping jacks. _Star. Pencil. Star._ He gazed at the ceiling. Gus was on the other side of the group, holding out both hands as if he were making a transfer of energy to Shawn. His eyes were closed.

"Can you feel that?" Shawn's voice came out shivery, as if he were enjoying a sensation that wasn't possible to experience outside of riding a roller coaster at an amusement park. He grunted as if to clear his throat. Juliet froze just before them, wary but intrigued.

Shawn's cape nearly grazed the floor; it fluttered slightly, in spite of Shawn's stillness. "Can. You. Feel. That?" Gus's lips moved as if he were muttering incantations.

Juliet found her voice; her mouth had gone dry. She licked her lips. She had to put a stop to whatever this was before it . . . before there was trouble. "Shawn," she called out firmly. Surprisingly, he tilted his face towards her immediately, his eyes snapping open.

"Jules," he whispered, "the spirits are here. All of the spirits of Santa Barbara's dead. They've come back." With a beckon of finger, Gus came alive; he must have been peeking. He seemed to be "pressing harder" with his hands; maybe it wasn't a transfer but some kind of forcefield only he could hold back. Juliet's mouth twitched, and she gaped.

"Spirits?" she asked. "You're . . . talking to all of them?" Her voice fell so hushed it was almost hard for her to make out. "_All_ of the dead?"

He nodded. "I'm having spiritual intercourse with a few right now," Shawn said, blinking innocently, unable to resist—it seemed—to fix a minor smile upon his lips—a somewhat satisfied look. "They have answers for you."

Juliet stared at his lips, repeating, "Intercourse?" She felt her face grow warm. She didn't even hear anything he said after that word. Lassiter walked into the hallway towards the group just as Juliet spoke. He froze, tossed an annoyed glance in Spencer's direction, and picked up his pace.

"You mean spiritual _discourse_," Gus corrected beside Shawn, beginning a usual shake of head and roll of eyes when he caught the color changing on Juliet's face out of the corner of his eye. He watched her until her partner returned, looking peeved and murderous, heading directly for Shawn. It was _deja vu_; Gus's gut tensed up—they _had_ done this hours before, but the scene had been different. Now Shawn was the center of attention instead of Juliet.

"No, I'm pretty sure I mean intercourse, Gus. The course of inters—inter—inner—the merging of pathways of the minds—"

Lassiter stormed towards them, almost like a mad, wild rain. "Spencer, what the _hell_?" Juliet jumped, quickly running a hand across her face, and took a few steps back.

"Relax, Lassie-Face," Shawn said, in stride. "I'm a professional."

"A 'professional' pain in the ass, maybe," Lassiter growled. "Didn't I _just_ throw you out of here?"

Gus shelved his gasp. "I hear that," he said instead, earning a strange look from Lassiter and a grumpy one from Shawn. Gus shrugged.

"I was just telling Juliet about the origins of her visions—"

For the next few seconds, Juliet felt as if she'd stepped into a silent movie, black and white, the film crackling and popping. The four of them were cast as stock characters—she was, of course, the fragile heroine in the corset top and long flouncy skirt, over-dramatically cupping her hands against her face as the hero—tall and dark—lifted a homemade wooden stake to the vampire's heart and drove it in with formidable grace. The vampire flailed about while his servant—a good man who had been enchanted by some token—came to his senses only for a moment to wail at his master's death.

In reality, Juliet witnessed Lassiter, without a word (but with his features shrieking curses) grab a handful of Shawn's shoulder and cape and forcibly pull him away while Gus followed, his expression partially blank. Shawn flailed and whined, complaining to Gus for help and for Lassiter to "Watch the medallion—this is a rental!"

Lassiter hadn't even given her a chance to explain, or for Shawn to explain; but Juliet guessed that Shawn putting her name and the word "visions" in the same sentence had pushed him straight to the edge. Funny thing was, Juliet hadn't even mentioned the subject of her dreams to Shawn. It made her shudder. Did he know? How much?


	6. Chapter 6: I'm The Voices In Your Head

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended. I don't own references to Hello Kitty, Band-Aid, _Little __Shop __of __Horrors_, Bela Lugosi, Justin Timberlake's song "Sexy Back" or Miley Cyrus's song "Party in the USA."

Minor reference to Season Three's "Lassie Did A Bad Bad Thing".

Author's Note: Reviews, feedback, comments and constructive criticism are welcomed and appreciated. Really love to know what you think. :) Thank you and enjoy!

##########################################################################################################

**Chapter Six: I Am The Voices In Your Head, You Are The One I Want Instead **

**####################################################################################################**

Shawn caught his outstretched hands on a door frame, holding on for dear life until his pointer finger tip rubbed over a jagged edge and pop, up came a big drop of red. He hadn't even noticed, not right away. "Jules, don't let him keep us apart!" Shawn called back, raising the hairs on the back of Juliet's neck. She craned her neck in spite of herself to see. She was holding her breath.

"Hold up, Lassie, I got a boo-boo!"

"You're _unbelievable_," Lassiter said through gritted teeth. "That's barely a scratch!"

Shawn turned towards her, waving his finger in the air.

Juliet stared at the blood and something unnamed edged across her, brushing her face like a whisper of bird feathers. She felt prickly and unattached from her own skin, and pressed her lips tightly together just to remind herself she was in control of her own motivations.

_But__ she __didn__'__t __dare, __not __in__ front__ of__ so __many__ onlookers,__ take__ his__ hand __and__ do __something__ about__ the__ cut._

Shawn licked the drop on his finger. "You know," he said after a few seconds, "I think I like the taste of my own blood."

Gus glared at him, frozen in mid-bite of a giant chocolate chip cookie he'd taken off Officer Dobson's desk. After a second, he went back to chewing but tossed the rest of it in the trash.

"Yeah," Shawn continued, nodding as he sucked more of it. "I'm not just saying that because I'm a vampire either."

Gus scrunched up his face. "Shawn, that's messed up."

_It__ was__ the __first __fresh __blood__ she__'__d__ glimpsed__ after__ so __many __endless__ nights,__ staring__ at__ the__ underside __of__ the__ earth._ Juliet stifled an icy shiver; was there a chance she was a shadow echo of herself glued upside down to the imprint of her shoes, as if she herself was the one underground? Her eyes were drawn the recurrent blooms of red. _It__ was __a __little __drop__ of __a __human__—__the__ best __kind __of__ blood __to __spill._

Shawn grinned, his fangs gleaming for a second in the errant streaks of sunlight. "Dude, it's awesome. Now I can feed myself forever."

"Just because you can doesn't mean you should."

"It's good. Try it! Come on, Gus, lick my blood!" Shawn cackled. "Say 'feed me, Seymour!'"

"That's not sanitary, _Shawn_!" Gus howled, hiding his eyes.

"For the love of—" Lassiter growled, tightening his grip on Shawn's slippery cape.

Shawn held out his bloody finger. "Jules, do you want to taste me?"

Lassiter shoved Shawn down the hall. "Get moving, Spencer! This is a police station, not a funhouse!"

_On __the __inside, __she __smiled,__ tempted, __her __gaze__ shifting __to__ the __receding __back __of__ the __last__ spoken__ voice__—__a __tall, __dark __male __whose __voice __could__ clear __a __room__ with__ ease __(__"__Fire!__"__), __quell__ a__ mass __panic, __and__ pull__ a__ svelte __woman__ against __his__ sturdy __frame__ with__ one__ solid__ breath.__ Charmed,__she __almost__ was; __but __inside__ this__ head__ there __wasn__'__t__ a__ shred__ or__ thread __of__ passion __for__ this__ fine__ specimen__ of__ a __man, __this__ well-chiseled, __life__ embodying __statue.__No __alarm;__she __knew __she__ would __get__ her__ way,__ even__ for__ the__ shortest__ amount__ of__ time._

"See you again tonight, Jules!" Shawn called, sounding amused.

Juliet snapped out of it, whatever it had been, and ran her hands over her face quickly, as if to be assured she was still all there.

She flushed a violet color, glad to have the three men away, with their backs turned to her. Maybe she needed to sit down, drink some water, and try to think this out for a moment without any of their interferences. Some of the thoughts which had just run through her head were not her own, she was certain of it, but this was more unsettling then comforting. Juliet chose not to dwell on any of it except the very last thing Shawn had said. What did he mean, he'd see her again tonight?

_See __her __again __in__ her__ dreams?__ Would __tonight __be __the __night __he__'__d__ drain__ out__ the__ very __last__ drops__ of__ her?_

# # # # #

At the stairs before the station's main doors, Gus chewed a handful of candy corn he'd swiped from another desk and again Shawn gripped the railing with one hand and pressed his temple with the other in a useless effort to stay. "Lassie, I'm getting something!" he announced. "It's time for your resident psychic-vampire to bring sexy back!"

"I never get that," Gus said. "Where did sexy go? I mean, I've been here all time."

Lassiter shoved Shawn forward, causing him to lose his grip on the railing. "Spencer, will you get the hell out? I've got enough weirdoes to deal with today!"

"That's pretty much everyday, isn't it?" Gus interjected. Lassiter's shoulders hitched to his ears. Scowling, he turned to Gus, and shielded his eyes. "What are you supposed to be again? And why are you wearing a windbreaker over it?"

Shawn chuckled. "What are _you_ supposed to be?" Gus threw back, ignoring the second question entirely.

"Yes, yes!" Shawn yelled, his eyes closed. "Yes, spirits, I will also drink your blood! Va-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!"

"Guster, I don't like your attitude."

"Well, I don't like your costume."

Lassiter took a step towards Gus. "Say that again to my face!"

Gus blinked. "I _just_ said to your face. Where were you?"

Shawn risked a glance at the pair, and fought a wild grin. "Fear not, the inter-coursing spirits, who find my hair glossy and sweet, tell me the Chief will arrive momentarily with a Band-Aid and tantalizing news about a partay in the USA—"

As Lassiter turned his scowl on Shawn, Vick turned the corner. Her left eye twitched. "Mr. Spencer, Mr. Guster, may I ask what you are still doing here?"

Lassiter flicked his eyes to her, then back to Shawn, looking suddenly stunned. "How did you—?" he gasped.

"No, Chief you may not ask. But you can ask. If you can. Can you?" Shawn flashed his plastic teeth at her from his hand.

As Vick drew closer, it became more apparent of how less amused she was. Still, her eyes wandered up and down her psychic consultant. "Authentic?" she asked.

Shawn grinned, brushing off the front of the costume, as if there might be errant crumbs. He smeared the red jelly. "That's not blood, and the medallion's rented, but everything else, down to my plastic fangs, is the real deal." Gus rolled his eyes. Shawn pressed the teeth together with his fingers. "Rawrrr."

Vick looked away for a second, as if trying not laugh. "Get out," she told them when she looked back.

Lassiter raised an eyebrow, a smirk on his lips.

"Really, Chief, there's a naked Bela Lugosi wax model somewhere, if you have doubts." He put his hands out as if he was ready to put a confession in writing about so-called his petty theft.

Vick herself smirked. "Get out. Now."

"I think she's telling us to _get __out_, Shawn," Gus translated as Shawn continued to show off, even performing the cape-to-eyes move.

"Get out!" Shawn mocked.

"No, I'm serious!" Gus shot back.

"McNab!" Vick called out, looking around. "McNab! I summon the undead!"

Gus looked ill. "See ya," he mumbled, pushing past everyone, taking the stairs two at the a time.

"Gus!" Shawn called after him. "He's not a real zombie! Chief, I'd like that Hello Kitty Band-Aid now," Shawn told her, holding out his hand. An odd look came over Vick's face, and then she retrieved a Band-Aid from her pocket. It had been for Iris, this morning, but her daughter had decided her scratch was okay without it.

Shawn took the bandage and hopped down the stairs. "Gus, I can't go out there! I'll burst into flames!" Still, he followed, the cape fluttering up and down behind him as if he were flying away.

"Do dreams come true?" Lassiter asked, still smirking.

When they were out of earshot, Vick ushered Lassiter back into the corridor. "Detective, I have an important assignment tonight for you and O'Hara, but I need to know right now if you feel she's up to it."

# # # # #

Again, Juliet felt a sensation pass through her, felt, impossibly, as if her own shadow was clinging the soles of her feet, mirroring her image right into the ground. She clicked her high heels on the tile, as if she knew how to get it to release her, but instead, it only earned her puzzled looks from officers nearby. She could feel, rather than see, someone's face sneering in her general direction, and wondered with a body rocking shiver if it were Shawn. Abruptly, Juliet spun, looking for him. He wasn't in sight. She put on her best smile for another small knot of officers, then headed for the ladies' room. Each step she took was like traipsing through thick mud, but she didn't let it show how unnerving it was.

_Poor__ Juliet,_ a little voice not her own whispered, right at the base of her neck. Juliet let out breath, and quickened her pace. It wasn't even close to night yet and she was already unhinged. _Shawn,__ please,__ whatever __this __is, __please, __please __stop,_ she pleaded, hoping to thwart any of his psychic instincts. He must care for her in some way, but her thoughts strayed. Cared enough to spread himself over her, kiss her as if they were the last alive on the planet and then bite her fiercely until they were the last dead too.

_Yes,__ that__'__s __right,_ the little voice added. Juliet suppressed a cry. _Poor,__ sweet __Juliet._

Once inside, Juliet pressed her back to the door for a few seconds. She felt a woman on the verge of something unexplained, and longed for the shock of cold water against her face. Juliet went to a sink and turned on the faucet, trying not to look in the mirror, but her own eyes were so blue.

She looked. It was her own self looking back. Juliet sighed, then cupped some water to her face and mouth. The flowing water and her breath were the only sounds within as Juliet bent close to the stream. She listened to its patter as thoughts that were not hers grew louder in her head.

_She studied the reflection in the glass, trying to make up her mind. Before her was a very pretty girl; surely, if she spoke she would have a whole room's attention? Her pick of choice cuts for dance partners at balls and galas? Would she ever know the killing solitude gripping her throat, the silent screaming piercing her skin, the inside land of her organs quaking, twisting, squishing together, exploding as she fell down, with no one ever there to catch her? _

_Would she ever know what it was like when a stake was driven through her heart?_

Juliet reeled backwards, standing up too fast. She had a sudden dread that she'd fallen asleep while standing here, and turned off the water as her hands shook. Had she been sleeping long?

Was it . . . something in the water? Her face felt cold and she hastily patted it with her hands.

Juliet let herself out of the bathroom quickly, feeling worse. _Shawn__ . . . __why__ are__ you doing __this?_ she implored, dizzy with unknowing._ What__ if__ . . . I__'__m__ not__ dreaming__ now?_ The rest of her body went cold as what seemed a physical arm wrapped around her waist, anchoring her body against it, and a hot breath blew on the back of her neck. "Boo!" a male voice said.

Juliet stiffened, expecting pain to come, not a laugh.

She was released, but she elbowed whomever it was behind her anyway. It landed, but the laughing continued. She turned around and froze. "_Drimmer_?"

"Did you miss me?" former Detective Drimmer laughed. He wore an orange jumpsuit and held out a pink box, grinning. "I brought you Halloween cupcakes!"

"From prison?" Juliet asked, trying to catch her breath.

"So tell me, are you and Shawn still an item?"

Juliet flushed, but wrapped her arms around herself, unnerved to the point of goose bumps. She couldn't move. Shivers coursed the length of her body, up and down.

"Detective O'Hara?" A clear voice, anxious but patient to her left brought her to flinch. Juliet looked towards the voice and up into the zombie-fied face of Buzz McNab. "Are you all right?"

As Juliet opened her mouth to answer, she flicked her eyes back to Drimmer, but saw he wasn't there. "Where—?" No Drimmer. No pink box. Juliet's heard beat fast in her throat. She tried to swallow it.

Buzz put a semi-bandaged hand on her shoulder.

"Did you see him?" Juliet hissed, looking around quickly. Buzz tightened his grip.

"Who?" Buzz asked, looking around. "Dobson? You just missed him."

Juliet had to wonder if she just shouldn't make a commitment to going home. She could claim that she was too out of it to properly function; she frowned for even thinking these thoughts. _I__'__m__ perfectly __fine,__ not__ deathly__ ill,_ she chastised herself. But another shiver followed. She knew she was not perfectly fine; _was_ it something in the water? In the air? Had something she wasn't even aware of being humanly possible carried over from her dreams and changed her? Juliet frowned harder; she resolved to banish even these thoughts; if Vick or Lassiter got wind of her strangeness, she would likely be yanked from field duty until she spoke with a shrink. She scoffed. What good would this do? Then she pictured herself straight-jacketed in a psych ward.

Easy prey for vampires, then. Someone in her head laughed.

She forced herself to smile at Buzz, grateful for his rather tight grip, letting it anchor her to reality as she got her bearings back. "I'm fine, Buzz, thanks for asking. You can let go now."

Buzz looked at her dubiously, but did as she said. "Can I at least walk you to your desk?" he asked, putting out his arm as if they were about to dance.

Juliet giggled, and took his arm as if to make him feel better. "You're not going to eat my brains, are you?"

"No, no, not unless you're a vegetarian," Buzz replied seriously.

# # # # #

"It's time to go trick-or-treating!" Shawn announced when he caught up with Gus at the car. He bounced on his toes, excited as a grade schooler.

"But it's still light outside!" Gus whined. "And I didn't bring my pumpkin head along."

"I know," Shawn said, patting the top of Gus' head. "But tonight we have other plans." He looked deeply serious for a few seconds. "I bet we can get through fifteen houses before we get the cops sicced on us."

"I'd say ten. Especially if we start with your dad's house."

Shawn grinned. "You're on! I did want teepee his trees anyway."

"You should wait until after we finish craving the Jack-O'Lanterns. And borrow all of his reserve candy," Gus said.

Shawn raised his eyebrows. "I'm impressed, you sound like me!" Winking, he added, "You can take off the jacket now."

# # # # #

They passed her desk on the way to Vick's office. "Did you take a good look at her, Detective?" Vick asked. He nodded. "So?"

At a passing glance like that, O'Hara looked perfectly fine, if nothing else merely absorbed in her work, pen in hand as she wrote up a report.

Still, Lassiter felt like he was losing her. That she was bending away from him, no longer green branches; she could snap at any second. His usual response to loss was to buckle down, to have her followed, her phones tapped . . . but this was O'Hara. And he needed an answer now. Lassiter ran his hand across his mouth.


	7. Chapter 7: The Air Is Getting Thin

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended. Don't own references to Bram Stoker's _Dracula_; _King Kong_; Velcro or Kevlar.

Author's Note: Reviews, feedback and constructive criticism are welcome and appreciated. :) Thank you. :)

Warning: This chapter is suggestively sensual, but I think it's well within the T-rating. (I want to point out that this story is a Shules pairing, but since it's Halloween, there may be strange happenings.) ;)

######################################################################################################################

**Chapter Seven: Now The Air Is Getting Thin, You Make My Senses Start To Spin **

#####################################################################################################################

# # # # #

"A Halloween party?" Juliet repeated, still incredulous over the notion. She hadn't been there to witness Lassiter's reaction but imagined it closely matched hers. Now, his lips were set in a grim line.

"It's a cover, of course," he told her. "Vick sent out for costumes."

Her eyes bulged. "We have to dress up?"

He shrugged. "I already tried to get out of it." With a loose fist, a gesture of presumed ease, he nudged her shoulder. "I thought you liked this undercover stuff. Maybe you can show me the ropes."

Juliet barely noticed his touch, or his efforts at comfort. "Where the hell am I going to put my gun?" Juliet demanded, taking Lassiter aback.

"Purse?" he coughed. "Uh . . . thigh holster?" Lassiter shook his head suddenly. He was not about to be proved wrong, after he had vouched for Juliet's sanity. His eyebrows knitted together and he told her gruffly, "Get it together, O'Hara. I told the Chief you were up for busting skulls." He gave her a hard stare which dared her to refute his words.

"Where are these costumes? What are we going as?" Juliet asked distractedly, looking around the office as if she hadn't heard him. _Are we wearing them now?_

Lassiter shrugged. "I really don't care. We've got to be ready for this sting tonight—and we've only a few hours to get briefed on the operation, and the roles we're set to play." His eyes narrowed. "O'Hara!" he barked.

"Carlton, I'm listening," Juliet said, waving a hand in his direction. She was still looking away, finding safety in work and its often complicated and tedious projects. Secretly, she found herself enjoying Lassiter's short temper, his insistence that she get on board immediately with their latest task, because it let her know that he was not, in the least, affected by whatever oddities might be affecting her.

She let herself smile. "Where do you want to start?"

Lassiter rotated his shoulders to release tension. Maybe this would be all right. "Let's start with the objective," he began. "We're setting up a trap to flush out a black widow who, according to FBI profilers, has set a pattern of stalking her targets at very public costume parties exclusively on Halloween . . ."

# # # # #

"That is _not_ the order I placed!" Vick yelled at someone over at the phone. "Look again!" She pinched the bridge of her nose; it wasn't helping, but she just pinched harder. "Yes, I will hold! Do _not_ hang up on me! I am the Chief of the Santa Barbara Police!"

If this was a Halloween prank, it was the least funny one Vick could think of coming at the most inopportune time. She had already grilled the officer sent to pick up the order to the point of getting him choked up—but he had retrieved the same costumes matched to the number on her original purchase receipt. Somewhat flustered, Vick ran her hands through her hair and stared down at the open boxes before her. She had ordered professional, elegant costumes; but at least they did both come with eye masks. _Lovely._ She huffed. _Great fix._

After five more minutes, three of those just on hold, Vick realized the truth of what she was going to have to do. It was October 31st, too late to run out to any seasonal stores still open and get something better. She reassured herself that if Lassiter could close cases wearing the ugliest ties known to man, that it would matter less that these disguises were the ones originally chosen.

Steeling herself, she called them to her office. Vick was relieved to see Detective O'Hara had regained most of her normal color and that her eyes looked sharp. Hastily, she pushed the Halloween Costume Extravaganza! boxes across her desk.

"Bad news," she told the detectives once they were seated, "the costume shop can't find order I placed, and it's too late to get anything else." Her face reddened as she spoke, her eyes drifting to the skimpy fabric in their hands. "I'm sorry, you're stuck with those. Remarkably, they are your exact sizes."

At first glance, Lassiter's costume looked like an ordinary police uniform, but when he examined it, he realized it had pull away pieces—pants that were held together with Velcro, for one. "What is this?" he asked, feeling a lump in his throat. He turned towards his partner, who was open-mouthed. "O'Hara?"

"You know, that reminds me of a getup I saw at bachelorette party—" She stopped when Lassiter's face started turning red, with either rage or embarrassment, or both, and fought a smirk off her lips.

"What?" he croaked, oblivious to understanding. _"What?"_

"Carlton, it's a stripper costume," Juliet broke to him gently. "Look in the box. I bet it comes with a thong—"

Vick, who had kept quiet during the exchange, put her hands to her face. _Welcome to my nightmare,_ she told them silently. Aloud she commented, "They also come with masks."

"Chief!" Lassiter balked when he could finally speak again. His face was bright red; enraged, he wondered what kind of luck allowed him not to scream bloody murder. "This is . . . _half_ of a costume!" He pointed at the plastic gold badge. "I can't wear something in public that says 'Officer Bad Sexy'!"

"I think you can," Juliet piped up. Both Vick and Lassiter jerked their heads toward her. She shrugged. "Carlton, it's one night. Halloween night. It'll be okay."

A vein bulged directly above Carlton's left eyebrow. "You're one to talk!" he snapped, going off before Vick could intervene. He stabbed a finger towards the fabric between her fingers. "Where _are_ you going put your gun?"

Inside herself, Juliet felt her skin smile a bright, wicked grin. She shrugged it off as best as she could, finding herself chilled, and unable to flush properly. Instead of feeling sympathy at her partner's reaction, she had only wanted to giggle. "It's just one night," she whispered. Then added, in the same ethereal whisper, "Office Bad Sexy."

Lassiter started to speak, no doubt to sling some nasty curses her way, when Vick snapped her fingers to get his attention. "Don't say something to your partner you're going to regret," Vick advised sharply, making eye contact with him.

"But, Chief—she's—" _She's going along with this without question. She's _teasing_ me. _He felt a wrench of emotion pulling him in two directions, but he could hardly say this, even if he could have formed the words. Earlier, she had despised the whole idea while he couldn't have cared less—and now, she had no objections. It was beyond weird to him.

"_Detective_," Vick ground out. "That is an _order_." Because she was still looking at Lassiter, Vick missed the faint smile on Juliet's lips, and the way her eyes appraisingly traced Lassiter's body in profile.

Unlike her partner, she had held the dress up to her chest, feeling intoxicated; it was white over all, with a sheer sash at the waist which would drop to her knees in a slit, lacy near the hem like a wedding gown, and far too revealing. It was designed to accentuate legs and cleavage—show some skin. Let it out. Just one night.

Was this such a gown that the modern Dracula would give to Mina Harker, expecting her to eagerly dress, take his hand, mesmerized, as he nuzzled her neck? As he adorned her with his kisses first and then his bites?

Juliet shivered, but then chided herself for the fantasy. She let the costume slide through her fingers back into its box.

"O'Hara—" Lassiter started, feeling suddenly uncomfortable. He faltered, then found himself relenting. "Fine."

After they were fully briefed and on their way out of the office, Lassiter snatched the box from her hands. In spite of Vick's insistence that the two of them actually put on these most unsuitable costumes, he intended to toss them both in the trash. Their regular clothes would suffice, he decided. He'd take the dressing down from the FBI, if there was one. At least one of them had to remain sane and he figured it was best if it was him.

Lassiter missed Juliet's surprise completely as he stepped in front of her, on his mission to the trash. "Where are you going with my dress?" Juliet called behind him, following at his heels.

"We don't need these, O'Hara," he told her sternly.

"Carlton, we need to look the part. This is a reason why you're never asked to do undercover work."

Her tone hurt him more than what she said—it was dismissive and condescending, unusual to hear from her.

But the worst part was that Lassiter couldn't wrap his head around O'Hara's lack of reaction to what they had been given to wear. Why wasn't she as indignant as he was? One could hardly strap on holster or put a Kevlar vest over such insubstantial material; it would be a wonder if he could hide his real badge in one of the tearaway back pockets.

But when one was undercover, would one still need these material possessions?

He dismissed this immediately; of course one would. He would be naked without his gun and shield.

The receding blush creeped back to the surface. Naked, a poor choice of words.

Angrily, Lassiter grabbed the fabric of the dress in his fist, letting both boxes drop to the floor. A small card fluttered out of the tissue paper. Intrigued, Juliet reached for it. The writing was a silky black calligraphy flourish and read simply:

"_To My Dearest Juliet O'Hara"._

Without thinking, Juliet dropped card with a miniature yelp. Lassiter, looking like a King Kong who had already squeezed Ann Darrow out of her dress, spun around. He was shaken for a moment, and felt suddenly foolish on his errand to throw the costume in the trash. "What happened?" he demanded. The dress sagged across his arm.

"No-nothing," Juliet replied, blushing. She bent to retrieve the card at her feet.

Lassiter frowned. "Like hell," he growled. He got to the card before she did, his eyes narrowing to blue slits as he read it. While he was distracted, Juliet slid the dress away from him. She pressed the fabric to her cheek, and inhaled its sweet scent of violets, roses, and vanilla.

Carlton cursed, but didn't share his accusation. _I should have known. This is the kind of mix-up that has Spencer's name all over it. I'm going to get him for this—tampering with police business. I should have arrested him when I had the chance! _He crumpled the card in his fist and stalked back to his desk. He didn't notice O'Hara following him, carrying both boxes. He started when she said his name in the whisper she'd used in Vick's office, the one that set him off balance.

"Carlton," Juliet repeated softly, handing him his box, "we should try on our disguises. See if we can get comfortable in them before the party."

Lassiter glared at her as if she were insane. "What the hell are you on, O'Hara? Let me see your pupils." He actually started reaching for her face.

Juliet slapped his hands away, disgusted. "Can't you just try it on?"

Lassiter pressed his lips together grimly. He wasn't sure what to do; O'Hara was thwarting all of his arguments; even in front of Vick, she'd said she was okay with the hand they'd been dealt. "I will not," he growled, crossing his arms.

"So . . . it's a little X-rated," Juliet said, pulling the top half of the stripper uniform from the box, looking it over inch by inch. She sighed. "You should keep it for dates, Carlton. I mean, Officer Bad Sexy."

Lassiter's jaw dropped and he stared at her in shock, not sure what to say. It was rare that any subject left him speechless, but O'Hara was doing a decent job with many today. He looked appalled, but managed to stammer, "The whole uniform, or just the badge?" He uttered it without a touch of sarcasm, but unbeknownst to her, he was fighting another mean blush that was creeping at his temples. Then, "I know you're my partner, but . . . honestly? Women like this silly crap, O'Hara?"

Juliet handed him the costume with a wink. Leaning towards his ear, she whispered, "It's called foreplay." The word hung in the air between them, even in the seconds in which Juliet pulled back, blushing furiously. "I-I apologize. That was . . . inappropriate—"

"To say the least," Lassiter interrupted, his eyes still wide with shock.

"To say the least, yes," Juliet repeated, nervously running her fingers through her hair. "I don't know what came over me. Excuse me." With the dress still on her arm, Juliet left quickly. She covered her face and chided herself for her own strange behavior. What in the world could have made her . . . _flirt_ with her partner? The notion made no sense; Lassiter didn't even possess a flirtatious bone in his entire body; besides, she wasn't interested in Lassiter beyond a partner/platonic relationship. _Why the hell is happening to me?_ Juliet asked herself, hating the disorientation she felt within her own head, hating that it was almost manifesting itself as physical.

# # # # #

After O'Hara's abrupt departure, Lassiter ran his hand across his mouth. It had been right on the tip of his tongue to ask if she was okay, maybe this time get a better look at her pupils and deduce what kind of drug she might be on—maybe it was something she'd taken unwittingly; even better, maybe Spencer had given it to her. If Spencer had drugged his partner, Lassiter would get have charges that would stick and he'd get to arrest Spencer. No bail, he'd argue, no bail because Spencer was a runner. And a danger to society.

Lassiter grinned darkly. Maybe this Halloween would actually be a happy one.

His eyes drifted to the police stripper uniform O'Hara dropped in her hurry to be wildly inappropriate. Wasn't it unusual, he considered, that O'Hara told him it looked sexy, when he knew that neither of them found the other remotely attractive? But then she said he should keep it for dates. Was there a chance other women might find it—or even better, him in it—sexy?

Would it hurt to try it on, really?

Yes, yes it would. Lassiter shook his head hard to clear it. _You know better than to get caught up in the nonsense that is this "holiday,"_ he berated himself. _You know better . . . Damn it._

The white dress had vanished along with his partner, not a good sign. Lassiter, with sudden dread, wondered if he'd be able to say no when O'Hara got back, if she was wearing that dress.

Maybe, if he tried on the uniform, and then they both saw how silly they looked, they would reach a mutual understanding of what a terrible idea this was. Undercover, bah. Maybe he wasn't cut out for it.

Rolling his eyes and scowling at the ceiling, he grabbed the uniform, accidentally pulling apart its Velcro-ed pieces. He hoped no one was watching. Muttering a curse, he shoved the whole bundled under his arms and left to change.


	8. Chapter 8: Make Me Whole, Body and Soul

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

Author's Note: I'm back, with another crazy-weird-loopy installment of this story. Mostly because **dragonnan** nudged me to continue. Reviews, feedback and constructive criticism are welcomed and appreciated.

####################################################################################################################

**Chapter Eight: Come Make Me Whole, Body And Soul **

####################################################################################################################

# # # # #

Night was setting in stealthily, in layers; daylight savings hours wouldn't kick in till mid-November, so they had a few more days to keep the autumn light, but nonetheless, darkness would be getting to them.

Darkness, and the things that went bump in the night.

Juliet moved through the hallway as if gliding; she felt an eerie state of deja vu, the state that had proceeded her fainting in Vick's office earlier. The sun was going down, its dark orange light teasing her through a window as she passed by, on her way to the ladies' to change. Juliet stepped from the light into shadow.

# # #

By the way the shadow was cast, it was hard to separate substance from shade; the human shape seemed to have merged with the thin crescent of the moon, barely visible at this time of day, and the layers of gray and charcoal gave the faint appearance of wings—not gossamer, like cobwebs, but bony, like charred skeletons, like bare winter trees. (She had remembered, from one of their cold nights in British Columbia, the way the trees looked in the night—stripped, shivering, tested by snow.)

_It was a site of waste, the homeland from which she was banished. Only the thin copper moon for light, always the pulse of night._

_# # #_

The fabric slid easily across her body as if it had been made for only and specifically. Juliet looked herself over, admiring the way the gown fit. She felt less like a detective and more like a starlet, like she belonged in a silent movie.

Juliet looked in the mirror to steady herself, find her own eyes. She felt a sense of reeling back, as if in time or space, of being pulled out of her conscious self, but she didn't want to go. Studying herself, she reached up and released her bound up hair, letting it spill down her shoulders.

It was lovely hair, long and blonde, and she couldn't help touching it to see if it was as silky as it looked.

This was how she looked in the dreams, innocent and doe-eyed as a fawn, all defenses down, waiting within sleep for him to come in to her bed and bite her, taste her and drain her. When he would put his mouth on hers she would taste her own blood, and she would wake.

A shift, a shiver, and then a sensation of prickling on the inside of her lips. A thing was kissing her, from the inside; was tasting her; was moving against the under the dermis of her skin, as if she were a suit to be tried on. Her fingers uncurled from her knuckles out; a ping of surprise at each fingertip. Rhythmically, she swung a hand back to run it through her waves of hair, the skin admiring the texture—this whole suit was gloriously soft, and warm, and young.

_I crave you,_ it said. It suckled her insides like a hungry newborn—wanting never to stop. Like a wolf—a creature with tiny buds of fangs. It was leaving its marks on her.

Lipstick, just a smear of pigments inside a tube—it was her best weapon. All she had to do was unsheathe it, raise to her lips, put it on.

She marveled at its modern simplicity; such a tool. This tool must have been available in her days, but it must have only been available to a higher class—and certainly not in such an accessible form. In but a few seconds, it brightened her lips, turned men's heads; even women stared with an open jealousy. They got out their smartly polished claws, holding loose fists as she passed, some of them snarling. What an effect she had, while wearing such a disguise.

She puckered her lips to herself in a mirror, popping them out in a pout, into a grin. "I crave you," she whispered.

Something within her was refusing—something in her eyes. She laughed at it.

_Too long, I have been a ghost in my own life, drifting along, either weightless or anchored to the ground, in one spot. I have little connection to the world around me except for when in my persona, slid over my skin like the sheet of a Halloween ghost, or a mask with tiny eye holes cut out. My perspective has become small._

At the mirror, she took her time. She was preparing for battle and these highlights, each in smart, well-labeled containers, were her first and best weapons.

Juliet stepped back from the mirror for a moment, admiring the white gown with its tiny silver threading at the cupped sleeves, also woven into the bodice. The whole thing was less like lingerie than she'd originally guessed, but it was hardly proper enough to wear to a police function. Still, it moved with her body, hugged her curves without making her uncomfortable. It was . . . like a second skin.

To herself, a nervous giggle bubbled up. _My dearest Juliet. . . ._

# # # # #

Juliet returned to her desk, stowing her purse in a usual drawer she locked. Being in the costume herself, she had missed its effect on others, how its long train made her appear like a ghostly bride, floating inches off the floor. She caught Buzz McNab staring at her, his mouth open as if he were seeing a real live ghost.

_He can't see ghosts, or he would have seen Drimmer,_ Juliet told herself as if it was rational.

She returned just in time to catch her partner in the act of buttoning up his shirt and tightening his tie around his neck.

She couldn't believe he'd really put on the costume, even if he'd layered it under his regular suit combo—as if, at the precise time, he would rip it off and become Stripper!Cop. Juliet eyed his chest as if she could see through his clothes, barely managing to tear her eyes away before he caught her looking. She flushed violently, keeping her eyes averted. She had no idea what was coming over her—whatever it was, it unsettled her. And it was made worse by Lassiter donning a Halloween costume. And practically insisting she also don one. Was it doing it to humor her, or had something unusual crept across him as she suspected it may have done to her?

Could Shawn's powers . . . be affecting the entire station in a way? Or had it targeted her and her poor partner was collateral damage because he'd insisted on looking after her? Juliet almost wished for the guts to piss Lassiter off and send him away from her, but with her current luck, it would only make him stay closer to her, maybe even _handcuff_ himself to her.

Juliet was horrified at this sudden thought. If she were handcuffed to Lassiter, there was no way she'd be able to run away from Shawn, to cover her eyes and shield herself from his unique psychic-vampirish powers. Her only hope then was if Lassiter could get to his gun and put a couple into Shawn's chest.

She sank into her chair, her legs seeming to give out from under her. Who was she, thinking these terrible thoughts? Would he hold it against her, next time when he drank of her, would he do it without passion, would he make her suffer? She flushed deeper. Was it possible . . . could he hear her thoughts? Right now?! Juliet looked down and shook her head.

_Hadn't she seen him already and been less than impressed? He looked like a child in an ill-fitting costume, that was all. _

"He's Shawn," Juliet replied defensively, aloud, as if she was answering a voice that was also addressing her aloud.

Lassiter looked up, his eyes on her eyes before they dipped back to her ample cleavage and then back to his desk. A flush began at his temples and he ground out, trying to appear poised on some report's paperwork, "What's Spencer?"

_His appraisal is fascinating, as fascinating as he is tall, dark and brooding. Like a dream._

Juliet suppressed a shudder and reached for her jacket, draped over the back of her chair. Hastily, she pulled it on over the dress, covering herself. "Shawn sent me this dress." _Shawn's a vampire,_ she added silently. _A real one._

_A vampire? _There was a hum under her skin in the form of a question. _I must confirm this tonight, if it so. _

Lassiter growled. "And Spencer's meddling got me this Velcro monstrosity. I'm going to kill him, before the night is through."

_You will? I shall see about that too._

Juliet ran her hands down her arms, as if to ward off a chill or brush away crawling bugs. There was definitely someone speaking in her head that was neither herself nor even Shawn. She clenched her teeth and looked away from her partner, who'd insisted on staying close to her. He'd brought some paperwork to a desk adjacent to hers and refused to leave. Juliet thought of the past five nights and how shaken—and stirred—she'd felt after waking each morning dream after dream. How easy it had been then, knowing they were _just dreams_.

How it had all changed today, when she'd seen Shawn's actual fangs, when she'd been bitten but something—someone?—who was now inside her body, affecting her thinking and wearing her like a costume. _Wearing me like a costume._ Juliet pushed her fingers against her mouth to keep from either saying that aloud or cackling like a witch—she couldn't risk falling apart in front of Lassiter again. _It's just one night, keep it together, O'Hara!_

_It's just one night. My dearest Juliet O'Hara. _

She couldn't tell whose voice it was, but it was deeper, in her head. _I am losing my mind._

Vick, on a walk from her office to the coffee station, froze six feet from the two desks where Lassiter and O'Hara were working. She couldn't tell what disturbed her more: the fact that Lassiter was sitting with O'Hara or the fact that O'Hara was in a provocative white dress with her hair unfurled from its usual bun. It made up her mind: this Halloween was the last year she'd allow costumes, even ones for cases.

# # # # #

Shawn insisted they crash the Halloween Gala early so he could look for clues while Gus ate. They had both already eaten handfuls of candy Gus had purchased to hand out to Trick-or-Treaters who might visit the Psych office, but the empty calories wouldn't satisfy Gus for long.

So now, while he and Gus were in the buffet line, Shawn was scoping out the scene and people watching. Most of the patrons had gone all out with custom-made costumes, fairly expensive ones like velvet ball gowns or chain mail. "I didn't know this party doubled as a Renaissance affair," Shawn commented, watching a group of medieval attired men and woman mingle awkwardly with a group dressed like superheroes, who appeared just as awkward about socializing.

"Renaissance _Fair_," Gus corrected, his mouth half-stuffed with a pumpkin cream pastry. He got a glimpse of the partygoers and snorted. "This is more like the TriCon, anyway."

"There were no vampires there," Shawn countered.

"How many vampires have you seen at the Renaissance Fair?"

"None, because I would never go to one those." Shawn stuck out his tongue.

Gus shrugged, collecting his massive plate of hors d'oeuvres. He popped mushrooms caps into his mouth one right after the other as they walked to the bar. "You're sure they'll be here?"

"They have to be here, Gus," Shawn rolled his eyes. He pointed one of his long fingernails, a new addition he'd found at 7-11 for half price, in the direction of four conspicuously dressed men in black suits with matching black Ray-bans. "They lose points for zero effort in their creativity—I mean, it's Halloween! You're not supposed to dress like you do every single day."

Gus took a swig of spicy red punch, the only drink that was free at the bar, and looked. "They look like The Men in Black."

Shawn shook his head. "Try _Washington_ Black. They're FBI."

Gus tsked. "Ewing was from the FTD, not the FBI."

Shawn tsked. "Downgrade. From the FBI to flower deliverer—"

"That's Federal Department of Treasury, Shawn!" Gus corrected. "Com'on, son!"

Shawn sighed. "Whatever. They're in Santa Barbara to catch a killer, and they need Lassie and Jules to help."

Gus paused mid-chew. "You brought me to a party where there's a killer? Can't we ever go somewhere where there isn't a murderer or a corpse?" He glared at Shawn.

Shawn shrugged. "Not when we consult with homicide detectives almost exclusively."

"We couldn't even get through our thirteenth year high school reunion without you finding a body. And then losing a body."

They circled the room, Shawn taking everyone and everything in. "That was hardly my fault. I didn't ask for there to be murder."

Shawn listened to the dull hum of conversations, scanning faces with and without masks. He was eagerly anticipating Juliet's arrival, remembering the strange fervor with which he had selected the costume to replace the boring one Vick had ordered. He hadn't even known what it was, but he thought it looked like another similar version of Juliet's pants and suit or skirt and suit combos, the way she usually dressed for work.

It was almost as if it hadn't been quite him making the selection; he remembered watching his hands grasp the white fabric, remembered feeling hot like he was trapped in a sauna, remembered scrawling a few words on a piece of paper and then sealing up the box. The rest was second nature for a natural jokester—switching the numbers and receipts with someone else's order—as well as picking out the hilariously embarrassing change of costume for Lassie.

Shawn almost couldn't say why he'd done it, but it seemed like the right thing to do.

# # # # #

An hour later, at 8 o'clock, the two detectives arrived, hardly resembling themselves. They had both donned their masks at Lassiter's insistence; by how red his face was when they got out his car, Juliet wasn't entirely sure if Lassiter was more angry or chagrinned by his costume. She had watched him, though he'd insisted she not, turning his back to her as he removed his usual suit and revealed his Officer Bad Sexy costume snuggly ready underneath. To ease his worry, Juliet assured him he could pass for a beat cop. "You can be McNab for Halloween," she told him playfully on their way in, linking her arm with his.

Lassiter stiffened, almost yanking his arm out of her grasp. "I'd rather be bitten by a rabid werewolf, O'Hara," he growled back.

Juliet laughed, a strange melodious sound that she quickly stifled as he glared. As the entered the main doors of the Santa Barbara Convention Center, she let go of him. The wave of air hitting her skin heightened her sense of smell and raised goose bumps on all her exposed flesh. She wished suddenly that she could have brought a light jacket, even though it was 89 degrees outside. Juliet glided into the room, immediately pulled in by the crowd, accepted in their midst, though some regarded her jealously through their own masks or faces.

"Honey," she heard behind her, felt a strong grasp on her upper arm, trying to pull her back. Juliet looked over her shoulder, incredulous to find it was Lassiter who had uttered that word, to her, and was now trying to steer her away from the other partygoers. His teeth were clenched. Juliet caught several people staring at them, as if wondering what charms such a gangly man could promise such a beauty like herself to get away with addressing her such in a public place. She resisted only for a moment before remembering what she was doing there and turned around.

"I got ahead of myself," she whispered, smiling at Lassiter as she let him move her.

"Honestly, O'Hara," Lassiter snapped in her ear. "We're not here to have fun."

"Carmine," Juliet replied. Lassiter stared at her like she was crazy. "Call me Carmine."

On the way towards the bar, Lassiter caught the eye of one of the Feds, who had lowered his sunglasses to stare at the two of them. He scowled back, nudging his partner in front of him as if to protect her from the leering look.

Juliet turned her head, but not to see the Fed. It was amazing her to be out and about, and she wanted to see as much as she could, enough to last the entire night or her entire lifetime.

Among the colorful garbed crowd, many of them merry and sated, she felt the passionate looks of men who could not take their eyes from her, any part of her. Was he here too, the one she'd called the vampire?

The one she'd called Shawn.

# # # # #

An hour passed with nothing happening more shocking than Carlton linking his arm with hers as they walked the circuit of the party. He had not been ordered by Vick or anyone else to split up from his partner and he had no cause to do so yet. They had been keeping their eyes open and as low as a profile they could in such skimpy disguises but so far, they hadn't come across anyone so suspicious to be a killer. Lassiter had made a point to stop and ask every "Sexy" version of whatever profession thought of that a Halloween costume had been created for—Sexy Nurse, Sexy Teacher, Sexy Librarian, Sexy Politician, Sexy Account—a few case related questions, but so far, none of them were proving to be killer material.

Carlton actually had doubts; if the FBI hadn't been able to track down things as simple as a name or even a good description of this woman who only appeared one night out of the year to kill, what had made any of them think that tonight was the night they'd discover her identity and catch her? He motioned for O'Hara to sit down at a table so they could take a moment to regroup. He handed her a plastic cup of punch and drank his own in a quick shot.

Juliet, while having been as close to awareness as possible as she walked around the party with her "date", found herself relatively distracted with disappointment and other, deeper thoughts that grew more vivid and worse as the night wore on. At the station earlier, Shawn had hinted knowledge of the Halloween Gala, so she had half-expected him to show. But he was nowhere in sight, at least not physically. . . .

_Biting down on her, running his tongue across her throat; she was his most savory meal. How badly she wanted to scream; she felt a thing stirring deep in her, under her ribs, behind organs, down in the deepest fibers of her human condition._ Juliet took a long sip of punch, enjoying the sweet burn on her tongue, shivering down her, going straight to her head, in spite of it being a virgin cocktail.

_He feels like he's . . . inside me, already,_ she thought, _like he has . . . already been . . . but . . . just in my mind, as if he's become a part of my thoughts, hardening himself to the roots that often call to me. Call me home. _

_Wasn't I always a wildflower, growing too big for my backyard, too big for my front door—like Alice before Wonderland—too big for my police station, too big for my state. My limbs became vines, my body a vivid green, darker and darker as it kept growing. I had to go with it. I had to grow with it. _

Juliet whispered to her own thoughts to stop, hissing, _Please, no more! This isn't . . . hardly . . . me. _

_It is. You. I am you. Look in the mirror. In another life, I was as pretty as you, with auburn curls, a corset, a lovely white dress, a closed fan pressed to my lips. Demur. _

Juliet sat up straight, feeling cold at her core where before there was only the warmth that . . . Shawn must have . . . _psychically_ transferred to her. She felt, around his true mask—his fanged grin—was his true face—his normal face—she felt the power of his kiss.

He wanted to give it to her. He wanted to . . . drink her blood until there was nothing left.

Let him.

"What did you just say?"

Juliet was started to realize she wasn't alone, that she could recognize, even in her half wince, without seeing his face, the inflection he had put into his words—his left eyebrow raised high, his mouth pinched, both eyes popped wide, emphasis on "you"—herself.

Did that mean . . . what had she, exactly, spoken aloud? _Let him? Let him drink me? Let him drain me dry?_ How much had she revealed when she thought she was alone for a moment with a glass of spicy red punch and an incessant voice that was not her own buzzing inside her head?

Damage control, she had to find it; if she stuttered or paused too long, he would insist on taking her home, standing guard at her door all night like a Scottish warrior, musket ready, the strong, silent type.

"Nothing," Juliet murmured, looking away.

"Let him _what_?" Lassiter pressed sharply.

But he might be needed to separate the bounds of night, his gun drawn, his badge flashing, his eyes in blue his only light. And she needed to be there, her gun drawn as well, her hands steady, her thoughts not racing; she needed to be there.

_Yes. Go._

Juliet shivered, and she swiveled herself so she got a good look at Lassiter, really drank him in, a tall drink of water. Unnerved, Juliet tried to get herself to look away; she was ogling, without really doing it _herself_ . . . it was hard to separate what she was doing from what . . . from what . . .

_Drink in. Ahh. _

Juliet pressed her lips together and steeled her hands to the edge of the table, wrenched her gaze away. _Stop it_. She had the uncanny notion that she was to be the one to hurt her partner, and it made no sense at all. _I want to look._

"O'Hara?"

There, he was already starting in, already wanted . . . why? Why did he want so badly to protect her? Protect her from what? Her eyes drifted back to him.

_You. Only you._

Juliet felt dizzy, though she'd only had a few sips of punch. She eased the glass away from her. It wasn't . . . what she was drinking.

What she was drinking . . . now. When she got to her feet, she was overwhelmed by the heady male scent of her partner, and cloves and cinnamon, and a hint of blood stitching up the seams. Juliet saw, immediately, that Lassiter had cut his finger on the rim of his cup, a tiny smear of blood resting on top of his skin.

Juliet wrenched a shiver out of her limbs, inciting a feather touch on her shoulder from her partner. She wondered again just how much she had to drink, and what, if anything, was in it.

He was appraising her, his eyes sharp, his mouth in a line. There was a crease across his forehead as he set her with his concern—a look, if she was herself, might have made her squirm, or wonder if her partner had been forced to ingest illegal drugs.

She had to fight a sudden, unwarranted urge to peck Lassiter on the neck, a quick press of lips, a little bite. She wanted to take hold of his shoulders, shake some sense into him . . . she looked at his blood, just sitting there on his skin.

Want me. Take me.

She reeled away from him as if he were fire, too hot, too hot. Distantly, Juliet felt him grab for her wrist, but she mercurially slipped through, threading into the throng of costumed partygoers. If he called for her, his voice was lost mostly to the hum of other voices in the room.

"O'Hara?" Lassiter yelled, despondent to see the flash of white, a quick rustle of fabric, and poof! the white rabbit vanishing into the crowd. There was something wrong with her eyes—in spite of her pupils looking fine. But he could tell just from the way she had been looking at him, studying him, as if she could see through his skin and into his bones.

And though he wanted to convince himself otherwise, Lassiter considered that O'Hara had possibly been . . . _flirting_ with him. It was subtle, and he shouldn't have noticed, but there was a certain way she had angled her body towards his, tousled her blond semi-curls with a light flick of her fingers just enough so he could breathe in the succulent peach scent of her shampoo. But maybe . . . he was overreacting. O'Hara hadn't been herself all day . . . why should she start now? Lassiter's mouth twitched sardonically, but a dread reached up from the pit of his stomach and put its hand on his throat. Something was wrong with her, and he had to find out what. Hell, first he had to find her.


	9. Chapter 9: You Flash Some Fang

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

Author's Note: **Warning:** This chapter is quite sensual, but nothing more erotic than kissing and biting happens, plus some suggestive talk. However, if you feel that I should change the rating from **T** to **M**, please PM to let me know. This chapter is a bit long, but I didn't want to break it too early.

I am crediting **dragonnan/DragonLadie** for the quote about "eating leftover hearts" as she said I could use it in its entirety for this story. Thank you. :)

Reviews, feedback and constructive criticism are welcomed and appreciated. Hope you enjoy. :)

################################################## ###############################

**Chapter Nine: You Flash Some Fang And I Bat My Lashes**

**################################################## ###########################**

# # # # #

Juliet wove her way through the crowd, trying to tamp down the urge within herself to break free of her own blood and bone and just run, exit the party and dash out into the darkened streets, heading at breakneck speed for the city limits. What good it would do, she really had no idea.

But she knew for sure she had to put distance and space between herself and Lassiter; the way she had been looking at him over the few feet at the table frightened her. A minor key of lust had settled in her mouth, the salvia under her tongue as a hunger deep within her—no, _not_ _herself_ exactly—geared up her teeth to strike, like a viper, like a wolf.

As well as she knew her partner, she still knew that he would be utterly blindsided by any attack from her front and possibly unable to defend himself over concern for hurting her. And Juliet could not let that happen. All day, the apprehension she had felt over something bad happening to Carlton was a threat coming from _her_.

Juliet slipped easily between throngs of costumed groups, many holding glasses of wine or punch, carrying on serious conversations about business or talking excitably about their children or planning their next girls' night out. Their words caught in her hair like bugs as she passed them but melted as quickly as snow brought indoors, slipping down the back of her neck as indiscernible foreign phrases. The crowd seemed to part for her, acutely aware of her as a draft of chill air drawing them away from her and into the circle of refuge of lovers or friends.

She had all but forgotten their purpose for being here—identifying and capturing a criminal, a potential killer who chose Halloween Eve to strike—over the fight or flight response ringing inside her head. Juliet was confused and scared, unknowing of what to make of what was happening to her, the how or the why, least of all how to make it stop. _Let it run its course. It's just one night. _

Juliet gasped, stopping dead in the middle of dance floor. These whispering words had come within earshot, a voice close enough to expel air into her ear. Juliet tensed, resisting the urge to look over her shoulder, afraid to question her sanity further should she find no one there. Instead, she closed her eyes and held out a hand in front of her, as if she could trust the first person who might take her hand and lead her away from all this.

_He is a different kind of predator. He does not need an open wound, or blood in the water, to attack. _

This voice echoed within the confines of her ribcage, hissing and urgent; still with her eyes closed, Juliet watched Shawn step into her circle of light, running both hands down her arms as if to warm her up. He grinned at her with sharpened, gleaming canines, and hooked a hand around one of her own. He thrusted her body outward and snapped her arm ruthlessly, jarring her to her teeth before spinning her and curling her back toward him. She could not recall the name of the dance, though she thought she should know it, but its name fled as Shawn bent her back in a deep dip, leaning over her, nibbling her.

Juliet took a deep breath, her body rigid in Shawn's arms as he ran his tongue up her neck. She could picture him, as he was—or used to be—smelling of pineapples and sweat, Australian kangaroo paste, the way could make her dizzy with just one look. He didn't even have to try. She liked the thrill.

Or she had, before all this. Before she had ignored five nights of warning. Was this a culmination of a dream begun long ago, long before she had even come to Santa Barbara, even before she met Shawn Spencer? It was both hard and easy to for the dream's imprint to return to her, when she had first screamed, first been charmed by a man—a creature—with a mouthful of fangs.

_Why was she never the one with the teeth—sharpened to a perfect point, gleaming white in the moon's crescent light? Why was she never the one brushing back a swath of hair, nuzzling his cheek with its stubble before drawing her lips down to his pulse, opening wide with her mouth already wet—hungry—piercing, breaking skin? Why was it never his scream echoing through the night, through the leaves and branches of trees, over the skylight, trailing down to the corner? _

Still yet, why didn't she ever fight back with the strength of a hunter—no doubt she had it in her— gathering up cross, wooden stake, garlic and holy water charms—going straight for the heart? (The head would of course do, but the symbolism of one organ over another—) Juliet squeezed her eyes tighter as if in intense pain; she felt forces as work with the strength of hurricanes or wildfires acting against her within her, as if she were trying to fight off a twin, or doppelganger. She sucked in a breath through her nose, inhaling the strong masculine scent of Shawn.

_He wasn't stopping—no apologizing, no speaking at all, just biting, a mouthful of razors on her neck—piercing, gouging, penetrating. Her mouth fell open, with a teardrop full of blood escaping the corner of her parted lips. She could taste her own blood, sweet as candy corn, as chocolate coconut, as—pineapple juice. _

_She gasped, knowing but not knowing how the liquid slipping from her eyes was red, shaped like tears but like the excretion of a cut. Her arms flew up from her body like birds, pushing against the heavy warmth of his body—like pushing on a rock. He wouldn't budge. He continued to drink._

# # # # #

She was a flash of white in an undulating ocean of black, a dove on a night sea. Her blond hair, done up with curls on the back of her head glittered. She was much easier to find and follow than he thought she would be.

Shawn had left Gus in good company, chatting up a shiny, silvery covered spacewoman who had also apparently been suckered by the same costume shop, so he could pursue Juliet and convince her that she needed his expert help on the case she and Lassiter was working with the FBI. Shawn guessed it would be easy enough, in spite of Juliet's extra fluttery emotional displays around him earlier in the day, just because he had superpowers while he was wearing this costume—heightened charm and good looks, not to mention his perfectly gelled knock-'em-dead locks. Who really cared if the costume—which when he'd first put on thought made him look uber-cool—now gave him the creeps and was starting to itch—especially if it gave him an automatic in with Jules? Once Jules was on board, Lassie would grudgingly have to accept it; Lassiter was well past the short phase of saying "NO!" to Juliet.

When he caught up to her, he brushed her shoulder with one white gloved hand, feeling her body tense. She didn't turn around. Up close, she appeared more stunning then usual; really, at a distance was nothing to this. The dress was _perfect_. He hadn't been consciously choosing something so seductive, though it had been _his_ hands doing the selecting; the choices had been a joke, a good laugh for him and his imagination. So when he had seen the two of them enter the party in full costume—shamed likely by Chief Vick into wearing such skimpy things, he had been shocked speechless and allowed Gus to do all the talking, filling in the blanks for what had happened.

Shawn smoothed the front of his costume and the back of his cape, as if there was a real chance they could have gotten wrinkled somewhere between entering the party and meeting up with Jules. He pulled himself around her, the cape fluttering seductively at her cheek. He saw her eyes were firmly shut, and took extra time to admire how beautiful she looked. Nearly a minute passed in his appraisal of her assets but he saw that she held out her hand to him, as if she expected him to squeeze it or kiss it—she herself wasn't sure, wasn't sure what she wanted or what he would do.

"Jules?" Shawn asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Carmine," Juliet said in a low voice, her eyes still shut.

"Carmine?" Shawn's other eyebrow shot up, then he looked Juliet up and down again. "Oh. Oh, I get it. The costume. That's your name when you're wearing the costume." He leaned in, taking her outstretched hand in his own and pulling her towards him. She didn't resist, not even when he pressed his lips to her neck, and inhaled her sent.

"My name's still Shawn," he told her, moving his lips towards hers, "but if you want, you can call me Sexy."

Juliet's opened eyes stopped Shawn's breath, boring bright blue into his usual hazel. She didn't have to say a word; he already knew it was never going to fly. Still, he was almost unseated by her deep intensity. She was squeezing his hand as if she were in some kind of distress and needed his support, but it was starting to hurt.

"You know, Jule—er, Carmine," Shawn amended, attempting to lighten the tone, "there's a point when you're eating leftover hearts where they stop being appetizing regardless of how good they taste. It's a visual thing."

It was just a thing—even in its most perverted form—that Shawn would say. Still, Juliet was staring at him, dumbfounded. His teeth looked extra sharp, even canine from this angle. He tapped a gloved fist to his chompers and Juliet heard his words echo through her skull.

She wondered whose other hearts he had been eating, if not hers. Were they all . . . female? Did he also have a "thing" for them—the women or the hearts, or both—or did vampires like to mate for life?

"Care to dance?"

Juliet swallowed hard, but allowed Shawn to pivot her so his body met hers. "You dance, Shawn?" she breathed with all the courage she could muster. She slid up against him as if she always fit perfectly.

"I'm a man of many secrets and hidden talents, Jules." His voice sounded robust, smoky. Juliet felt dizzy, as if the skimpy dress had come with a corset and someone had laced it too tight around her. Her stomach was empty.

"Talents," Juliet repeated softly. "How many hearts . . ."

"Hmm?" Shawn bent her into a partial dip, whirling her up just as quickly, pulling her back into his arms, all with perfect timing so she barely could get used to the falling, could barely notice his breath on her exposed throat.

She couldn't speak. She pressed herself against his body, afraid of falling again. Her mind whirred with what kinds of hearts he'd been eating. Maybe . . . they hadn't been human. Maybe . . . they'd belonged to rabbits, fish, sheep. Maybe they bled, if raw, as he stuffed them into his mouth. What if they belonged to small children . . . or kittens? Juliet gasped. Why did he no longer want her heart?

Abruptly, she lurched back, letting go of him and daring fate to watch her fall. But he hadn't let go of her. "Jules?" Shawn asked with concern, "are you still with me?"

"Hearts," Juliet breathed. "You eat hearts."

"Candy hearts," he explained, sounding surprised that she still wanted to talk about it. "The Conversation Hearts. See, after a while, I get tired of them speaking to me. They are so loud, so bossy! Or maybe it's the reading. It's one of those." He grinned sheepishly, his fangs shining in the light.

His plastic fangs. Juliet blinked, then blinked again. Still plastic.

This was a bad idea; she shouldn't have given in. Juliet's heart raced, and she wondered with fear if Shawn could hear her blood, could smell it even though it was all safe inside of her. He squeezed her hand, easing her closer to his chest. This time, Juliet didn't squeeze back. "Are you still with me?" he asked again, provocative, teasing her—or could she be imagining—? Juliet tilted her head back, getting a good look at Shawn's face—a mistake. He looked hungry, had no qualms of taking her right here, of spilling fresh blood down her nice white dress.

Begging him, on her knees, begging him . . . not to stop.

_Oh, god._ A blush crept into her cheeks from the back of her neck. This might only entice him. Juliet, in a panic, threw her body back, severing their connection. She spun in the crowd, barely missing taking out another couple—a fox and a rabbit—dancing cheek to cheek. Juliet dashed forward, her heart clamping her jaw shut. Soon, its pounding would reach her eyes, and then all of her senses would be locked. Juliet stumbled as she ran, but she didn't fall.

Shawn had no speakable time to recover from Juliet's unexpected mad ditch and dash—not enough time to stop her, anyway. Her name stuck in his throat and the whole thing made him feel nervous. He didn't know what to do, but his hesitation only lasted a few solid seconds. As before, he pursued her, quickening his steps to overcome her flight. The deja vu of it made him dizzy; hadn't she been running away from something—or someone—just minutes before, when he'd managed to get close enough?

"Jules, I know this isn't the most exciting party," he called after her, "but it's kind of insulting that you think I'm boring you to death!"

They hadn't even talked about the case because he'd been too busy flirting, but Shawn could make no apologizes for it. It was just too hard not to, since Juliet was so gorgeous and seemed to retain some of the inexplicable vulnerability she had worn all day—the fainting at the sight of him and way she had seemed to shrink back from him, as if afraid. It was definitely the costume, Shawn thought, running his new plastic nails under the collar to scratch his own skin. He thought that Juliet could save him if she would just take off his costume—and hers too, while she was at it.

He grinned mischievously, not certain he wanted Halloween to end. All this role play was actually fun, but that didn't mean he wanted to go another TriCon if he could possibly help it. What he was doing—and what Jules was doing too, he hoped—was more along the lines of undercover work, necessary at times as private or homicide detectives, respectively. If he could get his regular brain to focus more on the room and less on the tunnel vision Juliet was demanding of it, then he could check out the people, find the mark or marks and locate the lady fiend, the black widow, the murderess.

But before he could do this, he needed to hold Juliet in his arms again. He would like to know why she had severed their connection and bolted, but he would settle for not knowing if she would just stay.

He chased her to the edge of room, a deserted, dimly lit back corner that even the wallflowers had shunned. They would have privacy to exchange lewd words and/or discuss how to apprehend the murderess before she sunk her teeth into one or more of the wealthier male partygoers. Shawn thought they could do both, maybe even at the same time.

When Juliet reached the wall, she spun around. This was the end of the line. This body could not slide through walls. She would have to, instead, retrace her steps.

For a moment, Juliet fell back against the wall, shuddering. The vampire had followed her, perhaps even flew after her in bat form. She run a shaking hand up her decolletage and neck, probing for puncture marks. Now the vampire loomed over her . . .

"Jules?" Shawn said softly, forgetting he wasn't supposed to call her that. "Are you okay?" He drew his eyebrows together in confusion, wondering what could have scared her so badly. Then he took the chance to get closer. "Don't you like vampires, Jules?" Shawn asked softly, his mouth close to her ear.

"I don't—I don't know," she said, clasping her hands in front of her as her shoulders began to tremble. He was so close to her—yet her fear was dissolving, trickling down her body like sweat.

"Aren't I your dream?" Shawn asked, his breath warm on her ear lobe, on her neck as he drew back to look into her eyes. _Aren't I your fantasy? _The words echoed loudly in her ears though they hadn't been spoken aloud.

Closing her eyes, though he was right in front of her, Juliet dreamed. When her eyes opened, a change had come, a brush of transformation. She knew what she wanted.

"I crave you, Shawn," a thick, sultry voice uttered from behind Juliet's painted lips. He was just repeating it, but with a nervous giggle trapped in his throat, his Adam's apple going up and down as if he couldn't catch his breath. His eyes, a usual shade of light hazel, glowed green against the dim lighting of the party.

They fell into each other, hungry, tasting each other, embracing bare skin, trying to get closer, closer. She wasn't even afraid anymore, even knowing that he might bite into her, share in her pulsing life force. Juliet could sense her blood humming like an electric current against his as they kissed each other passionately, with abandon. She forced her tongue into his mouth, turning him so that his back was against the wall, and tore his shirt. She broke to kiss his chest and suck on his neck. _This is so much better than the dream. _Shawn guided her face back to his lips.

Juliet pulled back after what seemed like hours, her own mouth burning from his touch. "Please," she heard Shawn beg, "please, don't stop," and leaned back in to brush his lips while her eyes traced a line to Shawn's throat. As if called to a certain spot, she moved her lips downward in featherlike kisses and when she drew close enough to touch, her mouth clamped down on Shawn's neck. This time, she didn't tease or suck.

She bit with the intent to pierce, to taste blood, to feed.

Shawn stiffened, but his whole body was a tight knot; uncomfortable, he started to panic. Under the mask of Halloween music and loud conversation, he screamed—a shuddering whimper of pain, at first—trying to jerk back, trying to push his palms against her arms to force her to step back.

To silence his cries, Juliet swiftly slid her lips to his mouth, covering them with a caress. She moved as if entranced, choosing not to bite but to kiss—hard, violent kisses that would bruise.

Suddenly scared and disoriented, Shawn fell into whimpers, giving in to her. She had manacled his wrists to wall with her hands, pressing the muscle of her frame sharply against his. He let her—take whatever she wanted.

And she was so hungry.

She kissed harder; his lips felt numb—but he was terrified to stop. _This felt so real. . . . _

# # # # #

Gus found Shawn slumped on the floor against a wall, alone, after receiving a distress text—_ HELP jules—_an act Shawn had somehow managed during the ritual bloodletting-slash-paranormal-attack-slash-horror- kissing. Shawn was holding the side of his neck, staring blearily into the dark, colored dots of light keeping time with the now electronic beat of the party—a change of DJ, he'd guessed. Which meant that he'd been fighting unconsciousness for at least twenty minutes.

"Shawn! Shawn" Gus called, quickening his pace to reach him. He stopped at Shawn's side, his mouth open, his eyebrows scrunched to his hairline. "What happened?"

"I think—I think—" Shawn gasped, noticing that his hand, which had been on the floor, propping him up, looked unusually pale. He licked his lips, trying to catch his breath.

"What?" Gus repeated. "Spit it out!"

"Trying," Shawn said, rolling his eyes at Gus weakly. "I think Jules needs a . . . a rabies shot."

Gus's brown furrowed further. "What? What the heck are you—"

Shawn pulled his hand away from his neck. In the poor light, Gus gulped at a red substance on Shawn's neck, but then caught himself, annoyed. "Shawn, what the _hell_ are you doing? When are you going to stop it with the fake blood? It's not funny now and it hasn't ever been!"

"It's not—" Shawn paused, looking at his other hand. _Well, would you look at—?_ He groaned, leaning his head back against the wall. _This couldn't be real. . . . _

Gus sighed, ignoring the gross but _fake_ blood on Shawn's skin. "Why does Jules need a rabies shot, Shawn?"

Shawn forced himself not to blink, to hold Gus's eyes like a bright beam of light. "Because—she bit me."

"WHAT?" Gus stood up straight, staring incredulously at Shawn. Shawn didn't seem to be joking around, in fact, he looked bad, as if he'd been beaten up. "What really happened?"

Shawn blinked furiously, wanting to go to—or back to—sleep. This night—at least the very last part he remembered—was not turning out at all the way he'd hoped or planned. "We were—she was . . . kissing me . . ."

Part of it seemed like a wild, vivid dream, nothing more than that; the worst part of that was the most dreamlike, the most unreal, had been their hungry exchange of tender but urgent kisses and swapping of salvia, as well as Juliet acting like the aggressor, holding his hands over his head against the wall. The other part, the more real part, was the pain, the biting and his screams, and his paralyzing fear that she was drawing his blood and nothing he could do would make her stop.

Before Shawn could continue, Lassiter appeared behind Gus, his gun drawn. He looked pissed, though when he stepped into some light, Shawn saw that it was just a mask. Lassiter had fear in his eyes. He was looking around them, both ways into the costumed crowd. "Lassie. What are you doing . . ."

"I forwarded the text to him, Shawn," Gus explained. "I didn't know if you wanted help for you or for Juliet."

"Mm-hmm," Shawn nodded. His eyelids drooped. "Both."

"Spencer, _where_ is my partner?" Lassiter growled, grabbing a fistful of Shawn's ridiculous black cape. Shawn grimaced as the knots holding the cape around his shoulders pulled on his neck. "Are you _drunk_?"

"I don't know, Lassie," Shawn grumbled, trying to yank the cape away from Lassiter, who was just noticing the injury on his neck.

"Are you bleeding?" Lassiter said incredulously. "What happened?"

"It's not blood," Gus countered, though he took another look, gulping.

"Dude," Shawn hissed, rolling his eyes, "you of all people . . . should know what blood looks like. Permission to faint . . . on sight."

"That's not funny, Shawn."

"Will the two of you shut up?" Lassiter demanded, looking rapidly from Shawn to Gus to Shawn again. "Now tell me what's going on."

"How are we supposed to shut up _and_ tell you—" Gus cut in before Shawn could. He ignored both his best friend and Lassiter glaring at him with disbelief.

"Is everyone insane today?" Lassiter growled. He released the wad of cloth from Shawn's cape, jerking it when he noticed it too, as well as his hand, were covered with a wet, red substance that smelled suspiciously like blood. _If it quacks like a duck. . . ._

He surveyed the scene, noting how Spencer had neither moved nor made a single attempt to mock him in his embarrassing stripper costume. At O'Hara's behest, Carlton had prominently displayed the "Officer Bad Sexy" badge on his chest. Carlton, for his part, neglected to inquire how the two of them had gained access to such an exclusive party. Spencer could be drunk, or sick, but that didn't explain the blood.

"Was O'Hara here?" he demanded, cutting a look at Guster.

Gus shrugged. "I haven't seen her all night. I just found Shawn about five minutes ago."

"What about you?" Lassiter asked Shawn, narrowing his eyes.

"She was . . . here," Shawn got out. "She asked me . . . to call her . . . Carmine."

Lassiter sat back on his heels, surprised. "Oh hell," he muttered. He was uncharacteristically afraid to ask the right questions—had O'Hara seemed odd, or sick herself, or drugged? It suddenly seemed the least likely that Spencer was behind drugging her, unless—unless she had retaliated when she found out and attacked him.

Lassiter shook his head slowly; no matter how angry O'Hara might get, he could not picture her physically harming Spencer, at least, not enough to make him bleed. (A slap or a good right hook weren't out of the question, but Lassiter didn't see a mark on Spencer except for the nasty wound on his neck.)

"You need to stay put, both of you," Lassiter declared, standing up. "Put pressure on that, Spencer. I'm sure you're not going to bleed out in a few minutes."

"Is that your professional opinion?" Gus retorted, but he squatted down next to Shawn and handed him a few napkins he'd taken from the appetizer table. "He's needs an ambulance."

"Absolutely not," Lassiter snapped before Shawn could protest that he didn't need an ambulance. He gave them a stern look, the one that never worked before when he told them not to do something dangerous. "I'm going to go find O'Hara, and then I'm driving both of you to the hospital. The last thing we need is to alert this unknown woman psycho killer to a police presence."

"The last thing I need is for Shawn to bleed on me," Gus muttered. "Or die." But Lassiter didn't hear him. He was already gone.


End file.
